


The End of an Era (and how Stiles Stilinski is totally taking all of the credit)

by majo, sarahyellow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adopted Stiles Stilinski, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Humans and Weres are segregated, M/M, Peter is underappreciated, Secretly selfless Peter, Steter-centric, Stiles pines over Derek, Underage Sex, You don't get to know everything until Stiles does, destined mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:28:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majo/pseuds/majo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p><p>In a world where werewolves and humans are segregated due to a centuries-old war, life is a little simpler and a little less fair than it used to be. Stiles Stilinski spontaneously changes from human to were one day, and his whole world is rearranged due to that one, stupid fact. He has a destined mate, and an important role to play in the Hale pack. He just doesn't know it yet. </p><p>When it's all said and done, Stiles will take all of the credit for changing the world, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Teen Wolf fic, hoorah.
> 
> It is Steter, I swear! (There's some unrequited Sterek action for fans of that, btw)
> 
> The character death is not Stiles, or Peter, or Derek if that really matters to you.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

For the first ten years of his life, Stiles Stilinski never thinks much about wolves at all, let alone the wolves of Beacon County. Everyone’s sort of sequestered on this side of the Sierra Nevadas, living in the last forested pocket of California before everything becomes rocks and dirt for days. Still, the wolves manage to keep their distance. They live outside of town, for one thing; past the northernmost leg of the Sacramento River, out on the preserve. Every once in a while you’ll see one of the Hales in town hall or at the sheriff’s station, doing something official—or so Stiles’ father tells him. But what ten year old pays attention to things like that? None, and certainly not Stiles, whose attention is harder to keep than most. So he never thinks about the wolves. At least, that’s what Stiles claims. Though Stiles is known to lie. 

For the most part wolves are something Stiles only thinks about in school, when they get a particularly politically-correct teacher who has them do social studies projects involving the wolves and how they came to be. In school, along with everyone else, Stiles learns the histories: the age of humans, the great time of conflict, and the ebbs and flows that came after. He learns about how people had started transforming hundreds of years ago. Some people changed into wolves and some people didn’t, and the ones who didn’t weren’t nice at all to the ones who did. And there had been a long war and a lot of blood and guts and the wolves had won. That’s the gist of it at least. To a ten year old child, hundreds of years seems a very long time ago. Only the blood and guts part is even remotely interesting to Stiles, and still certainly nothing of significance. As far as Stiles can tell, life is fine, and it’s completely normal to have all of the humans in one half of the county and the wolves in the other. That’s how they do it everywhere, his teacher says. Wolves in one place, humans in another. Separate but equal, his teacher says.

Mrs. McCall likes to say that it’s easy to forget who controls you when they keep such a polite distance. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles reads the file folder of arrest documents that he found a while ago on one of the officers’ desks. It isn’t the best reading material but it does hold the appeal of being something related to violence and criminals, and is therefore probably not something he should be reading. Unfortunately someone else notices.

“Put that down!” A hand comes out and grabs the packet of reports, successfully ripping it from Stiles’ hands. “You’re supposed to be doing your homework, not stealing things off Officer Tate’s desk!”

“Well he’s the one who left it there.” Stiles looses a bored sigh. “I can’t do my homework.”

“Why not?”

“I need colored pencils.”

The deputy gives him a sharp look. “You have a pencil.”

“Yeah but I need colored ones,” Stiles says impatiently. He holds up his social studies worksheet to show. “We’re supposed to color in where the Mayan, Aztec, and Incan civilizations were.” Stiles doesn’t know why really. It’s not like a he or any of his human classmates will ever get permits for interstate, let alone international travel. Stiles thinks it’s a shame, since the Aztecs sound even cooler than werewolves. “Colored pencils, please,” he says winningly to Pruitt.

The man sighs, and Stiles can tell that Deputy Pruitt is frustrated with him for making him give so many of his office supplies. But Stiles can’t help it! He is being unusually good at focusing on his work—or at least at not bothering the adults around him. So what if he needs a few binder clips and highlighters and police files to entertain himself with? It isn’t like he _wants_ to be doing his homework at the station. That is totally not cool. Other kids might think it would be cool to hang out at police headquarters but Stiles is the sheriff’s son and he knows from experience—it is not like T.V. There is nothing fun to do and nobody to talk to and handcuffed criminals don’t ever get tackled in the hallways. And since his dad is there Stiles can’t even blow off his homework for a few hours. You’d think the sheriff of an entire county would be too busy to poke his head out of an office door every ten minutes to check on his son’s homework, but he isn’t. Stiles usually goes to Scott’s house after school, but Scott’s gone and gotten the chicken pox. He hasn’t been in school for a week—lucky idiot—so Stiles is stuck spending his afternoons at the station until his dad can drive him home. 

It’s almost four o’clock when the door to the station opens. A woman walks in, followed by two kids: a boy and a girl. The boy is older and wearing worn-in jeans and a leather jacket. Stiles immediately decides that he wants one just like it. The girl beside the teenager is probably closer to Stiles’ own age. She looks bored to be there. _Join the club_ , Stiles thinks. There is a man who stands outside of the station’s door, not coming in though he obviously arrived with the other three. He has a serious expression, and Stiles thinks that he looks like the bad guy in a movie. The woman who came in first is Alpha Hale. Stiles only knows this from having seen her on local television before. He’s heard plenty of stories from his dad, but he’s never seen the woman in person yet. Nor has he seen many of the wolves at all really. They usually stay away, and humans, as far as Stiles can tell, do pretty much the same. As the sheriff, Stiles’ dad has more contact with the wolves than most, and this fascinates Stiles to no end. Right now his dad has emerged from his office with a concerned look on his face. Stiles watches as the sheriff greets alpha Hale and they exchange tense, hushed words. “Are those the Hales?” he asks Pruitt excitedly. He’s never seen anyone else from the family but they do look to be related. “Are they?”

Pruitt frowns at him. “Yes. Be quiet. They can hear you.”

As if in proof of this, the one kid—the boy—turns to look over at where Stiles is sitting. He has black hair and green eyes (Stiles is a little disappointed that none of the newcomers are currently sporting spooky wolf-eyes). He looks very cool—definitely in middle school, maybe even _high school_. Yeah, definitely in high school. As a current fifth grader, Stiles doesn’t think that there is much cooler than being in middle school. And high school, well… _pfft_ , that pretty much guarantees automatic coolness in Stiles’ world. The boy continues to stare at him with interest, and Stiles goes on thinking about middle school and older kids, but then also about how much harder homework will be in the sixth grade. He wonders if school is any harder at the schools that the wolves go to, at the schools that the two kids across the room undoubtedly go to. He wonders if they’re allowed to run around like wolves at recess. The kids, he realizes, must be Derek and Cora Hale; son and daughter to the alpha, Talia Hale. Kids at Stiles’ school like to make stories up about them. Stiles most of all.

The girl finally catches sight of her brother watching Stiles, because she walks over and whispers something to him. Whatever she says makes him look away, and then the two of them go to join their mother in the room where Stiles’ dad’s office is. The door is shut with a resounding thud, which means that whatever is being discussed inside is probably serious business.

Stiles does a squiggly dance in his seat. This is so cool! Scott may have gotten to stay home sick but now Stiles knows he can make him jealous because he’s seen the wolves—multiple ones!—in person. He’ll call Scott that night and brag all about their spooky eyes and super powers. Stiles is about to get up and go investigate why the Hales are all here in the first place, but Pruitt hisses at him to get back to work and stop staring. 

Whatever is going on with alpha Hale, it really is serious business. Stiles could pee his pants—but seriously, not really—with how exciting it is. The adults in the station aren’t telling him anything but they’re all nervous energy, buzzing police radios, and phones with six lines on hold since that afternoon. _Finally_ , Stiles thinks, this is starting to actually resemble T.V. He wants to know what has happened, and he can guess that whatever it is, is a pretty big deal because officer Pruitt looks genuinely distressed and some of the deputies have been discussing “the medical examiner” and “the crime scene.” These things, Stiles knows, are what people talk about when someone is very hurt, or very dead. Later, a few men get dragged into the station, handcuffed and solemn.

Stiles’ dad won’t tell him a thing. He gets another officer to drive Stiles home that night and Astoria Martin babysits. Stiles falls asleep to the sound of her talking to her boyfriend on the house phone. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

A girl was murdered. 

Stiles continues to be fascinated by it, but the coolness factor is somewhat dampered by the details that he learns over the next week or so. Kids at school have about ten different versions of the truth going around, each one slightly warped with fantastic embellishment. But Stiles knows the true-truth. And for the first time ever, he doesn’t really feel like bragging about it.

A girl Stiles’ age was murdered. 

It’s been hard to piece it together, but snooping through his father’s police stuff got him half of the way there, and John sitting him down for a serious one-on-one rounded out the rest. 

A werewolf girl Stiles’ age was murdered by a group of human men. They made some dogs eat her alive. 

John tells his son the truth in an attempt to temper his desire to know more, more, and more. And it does seem to work to that effect because as soon as Stiles hears it, he looks as if he’d rather forget. So yeah, he tells Stiles so that he’ll stop prying. But he also does it because Stiles just doesn’t _get it_. He still doesn’t quite understand the way that the world works, with wolves and humans and the way things are between them. Better he learn now by tragic example, rather than continue on until he himself one day does something stupid. Pisses off the wrong werewolf with his inquisitive nature and gets hurt. John doesn’t want that for his son. 

So he tells him. Tells him to shock him out of his naivety. 

Four grown men kidnapped, tortured, and killed a little girl. She was out running like a wolf and they shot her and put her in a cold, scary basement. Two of the men had had young daughters who fell prey the year before to violence from a were that’d gone feral in the county. And now a ten year old little girl is dead because of grief, and hate, and revenge. 

At this point in the conversation, Stiles still finds the breath to ask how the men killed her. His father tells him that she was mauled to death by dogs—the human men’s version of poetic retribution. Stiles feels like he’s just learned something that he’s definitely not grown up enough for, and maybe John understands because he takes Stiles’ hand and rubs it; explains how humans and wolves have been trading atrocities back and forth for as long as anyone can remember, and tells Stiles that, “Sometimes in life kiddo, there are some really evil things that happen, and nobody can make sense of them.”

And hopefully the perpetrators had their fill because now the wolves are going to bring swift and terrible vengeance for this crime. Or at least, that’s what Stiles’ dad tells him.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stile’s world is getting more interesting by the day. First Talia Hale shows up at his dad’s work, then the most disturbing case of human-on-wolf crime that has ever been seen in Beacon Hills comes to light, and then the alpha comes to their house, and now she’s staying for dinner?! Stiles can’t believe his luck. He tries to get away to call Scott that evening but his dad keeps saying that this visit with the Hales is more important and that he can tell Scott all of his stories tomorrow. Where he would normally act frustrated with Stiles, John now seems resigned. Where he would normally give Stiles the evil eye for misbehavior, he instead gives him a regretful smile. Stiles hopes his dad doesn’t start drinking at dinner. He seems to be in that sort of a mood.

The man and the kids stand behind her as Talia greets his dad with a handshake. Stiles figures that the two of them, if not their larger respective communities, must at least be on good terms. She asks John about the mood in town, and Stiles hears his dad murmur darkly to her about “upset people,” “discontent,” and “town meetings.”

Talia goes privately with his dad into the formal living room, speaking of “preventing vigilantism,” “increased police presence,” and “curfew enforcement.” She says that things haven’t been this bad in thirty years, not since the Argents were turned, and Stiles wishes he knew who the Argents were because _that sounds dire_. Then Talia changes her tone and tells John that they should put aside talk of this current ‘fiasco’, and focus on the matter at hand instead. She sounds almost sympathetic and John sounds sad…

Stiles would linger outside the room and try to eavesdrop more, but the man who came with Talia is standing there looking quite threatening. He has a scar that comes up out of the neck of his shirt, curving the edge of his jaw and nearly reaching the outer corner of an eye. He doesn’t look like someone whom Stiles wants to cross, and so instead Stiles convinces Derek and Cora to play on the old foosball table with him until dinner.

 

Everybody arranges themselves around the dining room table when John Stilinski brings out the lasagna. It is one of the few things that he’s gotten really good at making since Claudia’s death, but it never gets old. Stiles is pleased to be seated next to Derek and the platter of garlic bread. Derek, he’s since learned, is alpha Hale’s middle child. Laura is the oldest—though she isn’t present. At Stiles’ same age, Cora is the youngest, and the man who looks like a movie villain is in fact their uncle, Peter Hale. There is something magnetic (and by magnetic Stiles means creepy) about Peter that makes Stiles glad he’s decided to sit on the opposite side of the table. Stiles feels very aware, for lack of better phrasing, of the man’s presence in the room. It’s funny that he draws Stiles’ attention so, because Peter seems to be doing everything in his power _not_ to look at him. Then there’s also the fact that Stiles is pretty sure that Peter smells like the Cinnabon store at the mall—which like _holycrap_ is of course the best smell ever! _ANYWAYS_ , exactly why they feel the need to expressly introduce the entire family to him and then surround him at dinner, Stiles doesn’t know. He attributes it to the recent murder and his dad’s status as Sheriff. That is at least, until conversation veers in another direction.

“So Stiles,” Talia says, addressing him with a caring look. “Your father tells me that you like to tell quite the stories about us.”

Stiles immediately freezes up. _Uh-Oh_. He glances worriedly to his dad, wondering if he’s in some sort of trouble for the things he often tells Scott and sometimesalways maybe even their whole class. Is that why alpha Hale had come to the station? he wonders, feeling intimidated. Has word of it gotten back to Talia and made her angry? Stiles swallows, imagining what it would be like to see a werewolf transform at your dinner table and eat you. Talia looks really pleasant and sincere, but then again so does Stiles’ classmate Lydia Martin and he knows for a fact that she isn’t. “Stories?” he squeaks, “Yeah I tell lots of stories. Not just about you guys but I mean, werewolves are pretty cool so sometimes I make things up. Just so it’s more interesting. Kids at school think it’s neat.” Stiles looks down at his plate, making forlorn patterns in the sauce. “I won’t do it anymore though.” Talia Hale chuckles. The sound is so far from reprimanding that it has Stiles looking back up to her in hope. Maybe she won’t tear his throat out? “You’re not mad?” he asks her. At his side, Derek seems to almost laugh, and Talia tells him, 

“No Stiles. I was just trying to talk with you. I realize that you haven’t had much contact with wolves before. We’re not monsters intent on eating people. In fact,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “I’d bet you that we’re a lot more boring than you think.” 

Stiles smiles a little into his water glass. “I don’t think so,” he says. 

Talia shares his smile and it makes Stiles feel less apprehensive. “I’d like to get to know you Stiles. I’d like to be your friend, if I can.” 

Stiles stares at her dumbly. “Why?” Grownups never want to be friends with kids. When they say they do, it usually means trouble. “Why?” he repeats. 

“Well despite these dark occurrences of late—I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened—something else has come up and it concerns you. It’s nothing bad, I promise, but you and your father and I have to figure out what we’re going to do.”

It takes Stiles’ ten year old brain a second to process that. He concludes that he has absolutely no idea what the lady is talking about. “Ah… okay,” he says. Mind switching gears from what Talia Hale isn’t saying, Stiles abruptly thinks of Scott and asks her, “Hey! Could you come back for dinner another night? My friend Scott is sick right now but he would go bonkers if he could see you!” His smile fades as he realizes how that sounds. Blushing, he amends, “I mean, meet you.”

Talia turns her gaze to John, and something about her easy expression slides off. She almost looks a little sad. “He’s just as excitable as you said,” she chuckles half-heartedly. “Forgive me sheriff,” she says to John, “I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Segues aren’t really an effective tool with Stiles,” John says dryly with a look to his son. Somehow he sounds both fond and sad. 

Stiles wonders what the heck’s got everyone looking so darn sad. “What’s a ‘segue’?” 

“Perhaps you could tell him. It might be better coming from you and I frankly don’t even know where to start. I haven’t ever had to do this.” Talia glances over to regard Peter. “Not many have.” Peter raises his eyebrows as he contemplates the surface of the dining table. 

John nods solemnly, looking just as downtrodden as he has all evening. Stiles is used to seeing his dad tired and stressed from his police work, but he has seemed more than a bit off since his sit-down with alpha Hale in the living room. For the first time, Stiles considers that there might be something going on here that is bad. Perhaps not the sort of bad where wild dogs eat a young girl alive, or where Talia Hale rips his throat out over the garlic bread, but bad in some other way. Stiles sets down his fork. “Dad? What’s she talking about? Tell me what?” 

His dad looks at him, thoughts collecting in the age lines of his face as he worries over how to say what he has to say. He clears his throat, scooting his chair a little closer to Stiles’ own. “Something big has happened kiddo,” he says tiredly. “Our lives are going to change forever, but I want you to know something very important: I love you Stiles. I always have and I always will.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I know that dad.” His father’s words are nice but they make him anxious. John Stilinski doesn’t usually do sentimental very well. “Please tell me dad. I’m worried.”

“Um, well,” he says, “Alpha Hale came to the station last week to deal with the murder. But while she was there something else happened. Something nobody expected.”

“What?”

John frowns, trying to push away any visible grief in his features. “While his mom was in my office, Derek noticed something about you.”

“Huh?” Stiles wrinkles his brow. “Derek did?” He looks briefly back at the teenager who is sitting on his opposite side. “What dad?”

“Well he could tell that you smelled different than most people. He told his mom and she could smell it too.”

“What? …I don’t smell!” Stiles feels the need to protest this. He shoots a nasty look back to Derek. Even if he does have super smelling powers, the werewolf could keep any mean comments to himself. Stiles knows that he does _not_ smell.

“No no. He smelled wolf on you Stiles,” John interrupts, aware that his energetic son can easily be set off on a tangent. “You… you smelled like a wolf. Like how wolves smell to each other.”

Stiles stops being perturbed immediately. “I did? Why?”

“Stiles do you know why wolves and humans live separately?” Talia asks from across the table, effectively interrupting the sheriff. Stiles blinks a few times but she’s gained his attention. “Do you?”

“Because of when humans tried to kill all the wolves a long time ago?”

She smiles kindly. “Who told you that?”

“My teacher: Mrs. Harrison. She likes wolves more than most people.”

“Does she?”

Stiles perks up. “Oh yeah. Mrs. Mccall—that’s Scott’s mom—she says that Mrs. Harrison only says nice things about wolves because she’s a ‘politically-correct brownnoser.’ But I don’t know what that means,” he tacks on with a shrug. “I think wolves are fine.”

“That’s it? That’s all you know?” This from Derek, who is staring at Stiles as if he’s an ill-educated street child. 

Stiles feels embarrassed. He knows the wolves get to go to better schools than them, do more things than them, and he doesn’t want Derek to think that he’s stupid, so he recites, “Hundreds of years ago, some people started turning into werewolves for no reason. The humans tried to kill all of them and there was a big war. Lots of blood and guts. Then at the end everybody signed a treaty, and the wolves got to be in control. Ever since then wolves and humans live separately so that there’s peace.”

Talia looks somewhat satisfied with his brief history, refraining from commenting further on it. She tells him, “A lot of people changed spontaneously back at the beginning. Even after the war, it still happened a lot. People would grow up, spending years with their human family before they changed.” She looks carefully at the boy, sensing intelligence in him despite his age. “Do you know why that stopped?”

“‘The genome settled out’,” Stiles says from rote. “I don’t know what that means though.”

“It’s a made up explanation,” Peter bites out—the first time he’s spoken during the meal. “Something scientists say to make humans feel safer.”

“Nobody knows for sure,” Talia says, urging Peter with her eyes to accept the compromise and shut up. She fixes her gaze on Stiles. “Almost all wolves are born naturally now. Born from wolf parents, wolf families. It is… uncommon for a human to just change anymore.”

An uneasy feeling is creeping its way into Stiles’ guts. “How uncommon?” he asks.

“The last known case in the county was ten years ago.” Finally, all of the Hales look right at Stiles. Even Peter does. “Derek didn’t just smell wolf on you,” Talia explains seriously. “He smelled it _in_ you.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what we need to discuss, I’m afraid,” she says. “Stiles, you are going to change into one of us.”

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

“I’m not a werewolf!”

“You will be.” Peter is staring at Stiles from across the living room. That’s where they’ve all ended up since Stiles stormed away from dinner and went to watch television. He currently has the Fantastic Four movie playing, using it to distract himself from all of the adults in the room who want to get through to him. Smart kids that they are, Derek and Cora have stayed behind to eat the lasagna. Stiles sits there feeling very upset, wondering why, of all the things he could have turned out to be, it has to be this. Mr. Fantastic, the Invisible Woman, Human Torch, heck even Doctor Doom has the best powers with the coolest perks. Being told he is a werewolf feels a little like getting the short end of the straw. It feels like being The Thing. Nobody wants to be The Thing. 

Once the commercial breaks start, Peter grabs the remote from him and crosses the room again. Stiles scowls. “Give that back!”

“I know this sucks kid, but you’ve got to listen to her.” Peter presses the mute button. “Stop being a brat,” he tells him matter-of-factly.

Stiles doesn’t like matter-of-factly. He thinks that Peter is a cold-hearted jerk. Who else can announce to a ten year old kid that they’re going to be forced to leave their family and friends forever without so much as an apology for the inconvenience? As much as he’s always talked about the wolves, Stiles feels terrified at being told that he is the exact opposite of what he’s always thought. Going to the other side of the county is about as good as going to the moon. “I’m not going,” he tells them all again. He glances over to his dad, who has finally elected to pour a modest drink for himself. Though at this point Stiles can’t blame him. If he was a grown up and liked booze, he would probably drink too. “Dad, tell them!”

John looks pained. So much so that Stiles could swear that he might cry. But the sheriff doesn’t ever cry. Not since Stiles’ mom. “I don’t like it either kiddo but you have to listen to me: you _are_ a wolf.” He can’t bring himself to think about what else Talia has said might happen, what else that the kid—Derek—said Stiles might turn out to be to the Hale pack. It’s confusing as hell and John can barely deal with the wolf part as it is. “A wolf, Stiles,” he tells him again. 

“I am not!”

“You’re going to turn into one. Soon. They know what they’re talking about kiddo. This does still happen sometimes.” John can still remember a case— _the_ case—of another young man who’d changed back when John had first been a deputy. It’d been a big deal. Now, he touches Stiles’ cheek. “I just never thought that it would happen to you. You know I still love you, right son? I’m not sending you to live with the Hales because I want to. It’s just what’s best for you now.”

“No it’s not. What’s best is to stay with you! Who will make you eat your vegetables if I’m not here? And what about school and my friends? I can’t just leave.”

John can barely look at his son. To Stiles it seems as if his father is acting detached, but in fact the man is barely keeping it together. He knew that this would be hard, but not this hard. “You’ll have a new school,” he says. “It’ll be a… a better life for you. I know you can’t see it now, but one day you will. One day you’ll see that this is the only way. I can’t tell the alpha what to do.”

“Dad?” Stiles starts to feel a cold reality seep in. His father is sitting there on the couch next to Talia Hale looking as miserable as Stiles feels, but he also looks just as resolute as Peter. For the first time, it occurs to Stiles that his father might not be able to save him from everything. “Dad? You’re the sheriff. Tell them no. Tell them!”

John steadies his shoulders, steels himself for what he has to say. “I don’t run this county. I don’t make its laws. I just enforce them. And the law says you can’t live here. Wolves have to be with wolves. For everyone’s safety.”

“And you won’t be safe here Stiles.” This from Talia. “Your teacher Mrs. Harrison: she likes wolves you said?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah.” She really does. “But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want to BE one.”

Talia is patient. She says, “No. I’m sure she wouldn’t. Stiles have you ever met anybody else who liked the wolves? Don’t most people have bad things to say about us?”

“Well… yeah. I guess.” It seems rude to flat out tell a werewolf that though. “People get angry. Sometimes.”

Talia nods. “They do. People who are nice to you now Stiles, might not be so nice to you once you become like us. Some people may try to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Stiles thinks of the dead werewolf girl. 

“Yes. And even if they didn’t, a lot of them would be cruel to you. You will not fit in here in Beacon Hills the way you do now. It won’t be good for you. That’s why the law is the way that it is. We’re bringing you with us to protect you. It’s not a punishment.”

Stiles can’t see how it isn’t. Everyone in the room seems to be in agreement on this being the best course of action. Everyone except for Stiles himself. He feels like crying but is trying his very best not to. His dad hasn’t cried and neither will he. He isn’t a baby. Sheriff Stilinski stands up and moves towards the staircase. “I’m going to ah, go put some of his things together. Some things that he’ll need.” He takes a long sip of his drink and doesn’t set it down on the coffee table. He carries it upstairs with him.

The movie comes back on. The Fantastic Four are all fighting on the city streets and Dr. Doom is throwing lightning bolts at Jessica Alba, but Peter has turned the T.V. to mute. Stiles sinks back into the couch cushions with a defeated sigh. He’s supposedly going to magically turn into a wolf, and now he’s being forced away from everything he knows to go and live with bunch of strangers? It’s crazy! Crazier even than a movie. Feeling like his whole world is crashing down around him, Stiles peeks over the top of the couch and back towards the dining room where Derek is still eating. “Are you _sure_ you weren’t smelling somebody else?” he nearly pleads. “Maybe Cora? Or Peter? He smells like Cinnabon you know.”

Through the doorway, Derek just stares at him wryly. 

Stiles’ heart sinks. His dad comes back down the stairs with two duffle bags and a suitcase. 

He hopes he at least gets to say goodbye to Scott first.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--


	2. Chapter 2

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles hasn’t even had a birthday at the Hales’ yet when he begins thinking of Talia as a mother figure. He says ‘mother figure’ instead of mother because no one can ever be his mom except his mom, and she’s dead. Stiles feels guilty enough for even warming up to the woman who essentially stole him away from his dad, but he can’t help but to want a parent so badly. Because human or wolf, when you’re ten years old, you need someone to love you. 

The Hales have a big house in the woods. It does little to impress Stiles at first because even though it is much nicer than the houses that humans typically live in, it’s not _his_ house. All the familial warmth that he encounters there feels foreign, other. It takes a long time for any of it to seep in. 

Stiles gets his own room. Perhaps they don’t want to be too close to him, or perhaps they all just realize that he needs his space. Either way it is a relief. Stiles settles in because he has to. He assigns the dresser drawers their contents: this one underwear, that one tee shirts. What few books and photos his dad packed for him get placed safely in the closet. He gets Derek to help him move the bed across the room and stares out the window whenever he doesn’t have to be at school or anywhere else. And for a while it looks like this whole debacle is going to permanently stunt Stiles’ emotional growth. 

Then Talia comes up to his room one day and hands him a present. It’s a fancy stationary set, complete with embossed paper and cardstock and ink pen. “You can write him,” she says simply, making Stiles’ heart leap when he realizes that she means his dad. There are no stamps, so Stiles has no way of mailing them himself. Nobody has expressly said that communication is forbidden, but the geographical separation of half a county is near-insurmountable for a ten year old, and Talia guards the landline like a hawk. So Stiles takes the stationary and gladly uses it. She doesn’t tell him at the time, but Stiles eventually learns that the gift is not limitless; when the stationary runs out, so does his correspondence with his father. The last letter is the hardest thing he ever writes, and a less than fair burden to be placed on a person his age. Limited writing skills aside, Stiles goes through twenty sheets of scrap paper before he settles on a draft. Every character gets printed oh-so neatly onto the last sheaf of fancy stationary paper, and a few days later his dad’s final reply makes Stiles cry and ache and hide away in his room for a week. He tries to hate Talia for it. He tries to find a way to mail his own damned letters but he can’t. 

Talia doesn’t apologize for the tough transition to preserve life, but she does start cooking Stiles’ favorite dinner every Thursday, and she helps him decorate his room when he becomes enamored with Star Wars. When Stiles is _finally_ allowed to buy a pet gerbil, she doesn’t say a word when he names it Wolfsbane, and she never even once puts up with Cora trying to steal it. She doesn’t relent when Stiles cries and screams that he wants to phone his dad. Stiles tries to hate her for it, but he can’t. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Hating Peter is something that comes naturally almost from the start. Stiles makes it past his first birthday with the Hales before the relationship truly solidifies. Through sheer luck, he’s found out Scott’s new phone number, and he’s managed to call him twice from the house phone in the office. The best time to do anything remotely prohibited usually seems to be when Talia goes out on pack business. In a house full of wolves, Stiles learns how to sneak better than ever before. It’s weeks after his last call to Scott when the planets align and have Talia and Laura out of the house, Derek at Kate’s, Cora in her room with several friends, and Peter in the back yard. Stiles calmly heads towards the office, heart beating out of his chest. 

He moves the door behind him, hearing it snick softly shut. There’s carpet in this room, and that helps to muffle his steps as he crosses to stand behind the large oak desk. It’s taken Stiles little more than a year to figure out that the chair behind it is a symbolic seat of power. There’s a fireplace to the left and bookshelves to the right. There’s a mission couch pushed against one wall and tiffany lamps in place of any windows. The office is where the grownups conduct most of their business—pack business, Stiles guesses. Talia and Peter and even Laura more and more now, spend time in the room when serious matters need to be discussed. Stiles has no idea what the serious matters are and he doesn’t care to find out. Somewhere in a repressed pocket of his mind, he vaguely insists that he’ll return home one day. Pack business won’t matter when he’s back in Beacon Hills.

He pulls the phone from its cradle, unraveling the wire in his lap and carefully pressing each rubber button to dial Scott’s number. He doesn’t need to have it written down; that’s too risky because Derek and _especially_ Cora are sneaky snoops who get into everything. 925-435-6676. Out of necessity, Stiles has memorized it. Scott picks up on the second ring and Stiles smiles widely at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Scott, it’s me,” he half-whispers. Cora and Peter may not be near, but he can’t risk them overhearing. “I got to call again.”

Over the phone, Scott sounds just as excited and nervous as Stiles feels. They both know that what they’re doing isn’t allowed. And though they haven’t made a plan yet—they _are_ only eleven year old boys—the general intent is to take this further. To meet, to hang out, to go back to how they used to be. If they’d been a little smarter, they might’ve exchanged other phone numbers already, called other humans to their attention so that a rescue mission could get under way. But again, they are eleven year old boys and most of their immediate talking points revolve around the incredulity of the whole situation. The first time he’d called, all Scott had wanted to hear about was the Hales and the wolves and the other side of the county. He’d thought that Stiles was already a rampaging werewolf! Though he’s had to disappoint his friend with the news that he is still human, Stiles is able to tell him lots of juicy details about how the other half lives. For the first time in his life, Stiles’ stories are comprised of mostly true things (though he does still embellish a few points in order to keep Scott jealous of him). 

Scott’s mom is working at the hospital and he complains to Stiles over the phone about how, now that Stiles is gone and can’t come over after school, Scott has to have a babysitter. Sitting in Alpha Hale’s desk chair, Stiles makes a face in sympathy. “Yeah we’re too old for that,” he agrees, darkly thinking of how Derek has been assigned to watch him in the past. 

“At least you like yours!” Scott says. “Derek Hale? He’s cool.” Scott doesn’t _know_ that Derek is cool. He just thinks that because that is what Stiles has told him: that Derek has been kind and brotherly and stood up for Stiles at school. It’s true enough, though it’s a work in progress. “I’ve got Astoria Martin over here every day!”

Stiles can’t contain a laugh, and the pitch of it makes him glance warily to the door. “Lydia’s cousin?” Stiles’ memory of the red-headed girl hasn’t lessened in the time he’s been gone. Most of his old classmates are still fresh in his mind. Sometimes he wonders if they tell impressive stories about _him_ now.

“All she does is hog the T.V. and talk to her boyfriend,” Scott bemoans. “And Lydia follows her around so _she’s_ here too sometimes.” Scott says this with a sense of wonder, as if Lydia visiting his house is the next oddest thing to a werewolf stopping by. Stiles understands though. Lydia had been the most upwardly mobile person in the fifth grade class, while Stiles and Scott had always sort of lingered in the lower-middle ranks. Sitting in the office, Stiles has a wave of melancholy rush over him as he imagines what he and Scott would have been like together in middle school, or even in high school. Even as grownups one day. Scott continues talking and Stiles tunes him out for a moment, never having imagined that losing his best friend could hurt this much. 

Finally, as Scott is drabbling on about everyone’s plans for that summer break, Stiles realizes that they need to _do something_. He interrupts, saying, “Scott, shut up for a second.”

“What?”

“We have to make a plan. I want to come home. I have to.”

“…But…I thought you were going to turn into a wolf?” Scott says, unsure. 

“Maybe. But if I do, I’ll bite you and we can run away together.”

“Whaat?” Scott sounds mystified. “Where?”

“Someplace cool. Someplace where people live together and get along.” Stiles is, of course, referring to wolves and humans. But Scott has to go and dash his dream, saying,  
“I don’t think a place like that exists Stiles.”

“Well then we’ll make it!” Stiles insists, forgetting to temper his voice. “We can start a human-wolf town; like the old settlers who lived with the Indians. We’ll be a colony. The first one.” Stiles knows from school that the Indian-settler situation didn’t work out too well, but he’s hopeful that he and Scott can do better. They have to, don’t they?

Scott agrees to the plan immediately. They go about designing an elaborate and very cool run away plan, the end goal of which will obviously be a human-wolf utopia where only the people whom Scott and Stiles say can come in. They’re still haggling over which of the Hales might get to come if they had any interest, with Scott huffing a big ‘no’ and Stiles arguing in favor of at least Derek, when the smell of cinnamon hits the air.

Stiles blanches, Scott’s chittering voice fading from his ear as he realizes that Peter is the one who’s about to turn that door handle into the office. Heart leaping, Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. He just slams the phone back into its receiver. That’s all he has time to do however, before the door is opening and Peter comes in.

The look on his face tells Stiles that he knows it all. Talia’s walls are not soundproofed. Stiles is still busy shrinking into the leather upholstery of the desk chair when Peter sits on the end of the couch closest him. There’s nothing currently going in the hearth but by the way Peter reclines and folds his legs, you’d think there was a roaring fire. He looks very comfortable. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles eventually manages to utter. He’s not confessing to anything specific yet, but at the very least he knows he shouldn’t be in the office in the first place. All the cogs in Stiles’ head are turning, trying to figure out what Peter knows, what he doesn’t, what Stiles has to fess up to, and whether or not Peter will tell Talia when he does.

Peter raises his brow at him “Sorry? What are you sorry for Stiles?”

“I-I know I’m not supposed to come in here,” Stiles stutters, going for contrite. 

Peter smiles softly. “No, you’re not. Why are you in here?” His eyes are so clear, so confusing. Stiles cannot read him, and it’s off-putting. Scary. 

“I…” Stiles is stuck. He doesn’t know what to say. “I… I…..”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You were on the phone with someone, yes?” He smirks when the kid before him flops his mouth open in surprise. “You know Stiles, for someone with such a penchant for misbehavior, you really never have internalized the concept of an indoor voice.”

Stiles frowns. He wants to protest that, _yes he has thank you very much_ , but it doesn’t make it to his mouth. His mouth which has gone quite dry, by the way. Glancing to the incriminating telephone, Stiles says, “I just wanted to talk to him.”

Peter’s pleasant expression remains as if it’s carved there, careful not to show disapproval. He nods in understanding, blinks once. “Who?” he asks mildly. 

Due to the fact that the man hadn’t come fuming in the door, nor has he once yet scolded or yelled at Stiles, Stiles feels safe enough to tell him, “Scott.”

Peter’s shoulders relax. “Your friend from Beacon Hills?”

Stiles nods. “Yes.” He knows that Peter doesn’t particularly like him, but feeling desperate for sympathy, Stiles explains, “He’s my best friend. I haven’t seen him in so long and I found his phone number by accident and I just really, really wanted to talk to him!”

Peter looks unmoved. “You know you’re not supposed to do this, keep holding on to them. You don’t live there anymore.”

“Haven’t you ever lost somebody that you loved?” Stiles asks, frustrated. He doesn’t expect Peter to answer in the affirmative.

“I have,” he says, making Stiles’ eyes jump up. “That’s why I knew you’d find a way to do this, eventually. I know you want to see them again Stiles. We all know that.”

“Will you help me?” Stiles can’t keep himself from asking. It’s a ridiculous longshot but he tries anyway. 

“I can’t give you what you want,” Peter says. “You are going to change eventually.”

“When?!” Stiles cries. He is so fed up with being told that. He’s a human stuck in a preserve full of wolves and it’s grating on his last nerve. He just wants to go home, and he tells Peter about how much he misses his old life, and Scott. He tells him about how Scott is always there for him, how he’s always up for anything. Before he knows it he’s telling Peter everything there is to tell about the topic, flooding him with stories and talk that Stiles hasn’t had a friend to share with in over a year. It’s quite hilarious actually, that Peter is the one on whom he’s dumping. He reveals to Peter that he’s been calling Scott off and on for weeks. Whoops. 

“Well, he sounds like a very good friend. I can see why you miss him,” Peter says, sounding more and more sympathetic. His voice is still cold, his eyes too. But a tender smile would be borderline disingenuous for Peter, and never once has he spoken this much to Stiles in one sitting, and… and it feels like this could be a breakthrough of sorts. 

Stiles feels a spark of hope ignite in his chest that maybe the most awful wolf of all will be the one to understand. That maybe Peter Hale will keep his secret. 

He doesn’t.

The next time that Stiles tries to call Scott, the number has been disconnected.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

It’s later than usual when Derek gets home from school. Junior year has just started and all Derek can think about is doing well in his AP classes, that fall’s homecoming, and whether Kate Argent might say yes if he asks her to go. He gets home a little later than usual that Friday due to one out of those three things, and Talia practically grabs him by the scruff the second he’s through the door. 

“You need to go find Stiles,” she tells him, no beating around the bush. Normally Talia’s a little more composed, a little more subtle so as not to let on to others what she really wants—and therefore what could be used against her. But she’s come to love Stiles like a son and it doesn’t escape Derek’s notice that she breaks pattern for him. The lines around her eyes look worried, plus Peter’s there at the kitchen table and he’s not making any stupid jokes. Means this must be something.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, giving a long-suffering, teenage sigh. He puts his backpack down and goes over to the fridge to grab a soda, still hopeful of salvaging his lazy afternoon. “He finally run away?” he asks.

Peter snorts, but Talia doesn’t look amused. “Something’s happened. He won’t talk us about it.”

“—Us?” Peter interrupts. “What us? The kid doesn’t tell me anything.”

Talia looks sharply at Derek. “He came home from school all upset. Go help him sort it out,” she says. “And be nice.”

Derek scowls. “When am I ever not nice?”

 

He can’t find him anywhere in the house, so Derek steps outside. The back of the Hale house abuts a line of trees; one of the most densely-forested parts of the preserve. It’s harder to smell anyone out here, what with the combating scents of the bark and the soil creeping up towards Derek’s nose. There’s always been a spiritual quality to the woods of the preserve for Derek. Something about it ties him closer to his wolf than any other place can. He tells Stiles that one day it’ll be the same for him, but he isn’t so sure the kid believes him. It’s mid-September now. This side of the mountains, the dying musk of old foliage combines with naïve-smelling shoots that have no idea how soon the first frost is coming to kill them. Derek turns his nose upwards, feeling the sunlight through his eyelids and sniffing to see if Stiles has been this way. The wind shifts, and Stile’s scent blows by faster than a frightened moth. It is distinctly Stiles and Derek catches it. He turns left, trudges into the woods over small rises and crags in the earth, following roots and beaten trails until he’s descending and his sneakers are getting pebbles in them from the decline down a steep bank. He almost sighs when he sees him, the water slogging lazily by. He should have known Stiles would head this way. 

Stiles is sitting cross-legged on a sandbank in the middle of the creek, looking apathetic the moment he spots Derek dusting down the hill. “Go away Derek,” he mutters, though his conviction is lacking.

Derek sits his butt down at the edge of the water just before the sand gets soggy. Stiles is only feet away, but Derek respects the self-imposed moat the kid has put around himself, allowing him the barrier of the water. “You know,” he muses, “You ought to find a better hiding place. The Isle of Stiles is pretty well known now.”

Stiles’ lips thin but he says nothing. He supposes it’s true. He’s been coming here ever since Talia first brought him to the preserve. Running water is a sensory distraction for wolves; Stiles learned that the first month he was with the Hales. Of course someone like Talia can track him three states over regardless of geography, but in the beginning, a new step-brother and stepsister could be avoided for a while by a forest full of smells and a babbling creek to drown out all the rest. It’s been his quiet place for years. He almost wants to sneer at Derek for figuring his hiding spot out. Almost.

“Go away,” he says

Of course Derek doesn’t. He gets comfortable instead, resting his elbows on his knees and digging the heels of his sneakers into the sandy dirt. “My mom sent me to find you,” he announces.

“I know. She tried to talk to me about it.” Stiles snorts. “She even tried to make Peter talk to me.”

“What’s ‘it’? She said you came home from school all upset. What happened?” Derek asks, though he sounds less like he really cares if Stiles tells him or not, and that more than anything makes Stiles feel safe enough to answer,

“Nobody likes me there. I’m never going to fit in.”

Internally, Derek groans. “What are you talking about? School? You’ve got friends.”

“I’ve got Danny. Anyone else is just his friend.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s never bothered you much before.”

“Of course it has!” Stiles grits his still very human teeth at Derek now that his tone has sharpened a little. Derek looks like he’s paying a bit more attention, too. “I’m the only human here, and everybody knows it.”

“…You won’t be forever,” Derek says, going for consoling. But it only seems to annoy Stiles more.

“Yeah well I just wish I could change already,” he sulks. “I can’t do anything like this. I can’t be anyone.” Stiles picks anxiously at a loose thread in his sleeve, worrying, “Everyone at school thinks I’m this special case. I’m human, I can’t live with the humans, but I can’t fit in with anyone else here either.”

“You fit in with us,” Derek offers blandly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re my family, you have to like me.”

Derek blinks hard and doesn’t say anything, but inside he feels a completely unexpected tug at hearing Stiles call them, call _him_ , his family. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Stiles say that. “Yeah well you grow on people. Give them time. Human issues aside, you are a pretty weird kid.”

Stiles huffs at that and scrapes up a handful of pebbles to throw at Derek for the comment. Half of them miss their target, and the edges of Stiles’ mouth are tugging upward in a smirk anyway. “Shut up,” he mumbles. 

Derek does. They sit there peaceably for a moment, Stiles’ foul mood dribbling slowly away at about the same pace as the creek’s current. This is one of the things he likes about Derek; he never makes him say more than he wants, never forces more social interaction out of him when things get to be too much. Talia and Laura (and Stiles guesses maybe even Cora in her own really messed-up way sometimes) try to make things okay for him, but sometimes they just try too damned hard. Derek doesn’t, and Stiles likes that. It takes a while, but eventually he garners the nerve to say, “I tried out for the lacrosse team.”

Derek’s face doesn’t change. He says, “Oh?” but internally he already knows right where this story is going.

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs. “Everyone was treating it like a joke but I thought that, you know, once we got on the field they’d shut up. I’d been practicing all summer.”

“I know.” Derek twists his lips. “So you weren’t good, huh?”

Stiles Scowls at him. “No I was. That’s the worst part. I mean I know I’m no Danny but I did pretty well. I could tell coach thought so.” Stiles is trying for anger, but he’s embarrassed too and can feel the blush creeping closer to his cheeks. “And for a minute, everybody did shut up. I thought I was going to make the team.”

“But… you didn’t,” Derek guesses. How could a human kid possibly, after all?

“No I didn’t. Turns out coach Finstock told all the guys to take it easy while I was on the field.” Stiles’ mortification reaches top levels and he goes back to picking at the threads in his sleeve with fervor. “And it didn’t matter that I was good. I wasn’t werewolf good. Coach said he ‘couldn’t have the only human kid in the preserve getting killed at the first game of the season’.” Stiles nearly shudders at the memory of how he’d said it right in front of all the other players. “He told me to go home. And I did. And everyone saw.”

“Wow. That… really is a bad story.”

“Thanks for the reassuring words,” Stiles mumbles glumly. “Danny didn’t even tell me. He could have warned me!”

“Maybe he didn’t know. Have you spoken to him yet?” 

Stiles stills like he’s caught. “Well… no.” He hadn’t practiced with the werewolf that summer. He’d been too afraid that Danny might squash his dreams by being ten times better than him. But maybe Derek’s right. Maybe when Finstock was giving everyone else the ‘don’t hurt Stiles’ talk, Danny wasn’t there. Stiles wonders now if maybe Danny wasn’t compliant in his utter, life-altering humiliation. Surely his friend would have said something if he’d known. Stiles hopes so. “I’ll ask him,” he says proactively.

“Good. And while you’re at it, ditch the pity party and move on.”

Stiles gapes, displeased. “Hey!” He’d throw stones again but clearly, that has been proven an ineffective Derek deterrent. He considers leaving his island to be close enough to push Derek. “This is like, private stuff I’m telling you. You could be nice.”

Derek is unmoved. “I am nice. Honest is nice, isn’t it?” Stiles merely blinks at him and supposes that in a less-than appetizing way, it is. Derek nods. “Right. So you had to eat a slice of humble pie. Get over it. In a year or two you’ll change and you can join whatever team you want then. If you’re good as a human you’ll be good as a wolf.”

Stiles beams. He knows that Derek is only talking about his skill at sports, but to him, it sounds like praise of a personal level that only Derek can offer. Stiles has always wanted Derek to like him. “I still hate it,” he says, though he does stand and brush the sand from his butt. He gives a great jump over to the bank where Derek is, just barely missing the water’s edge.

“Hate what?” Derek is purposefully obtuse and he stands up to perform the same butt-brush.

“My life.”

“Everyone hates their life when they’re your age.” 

It’s nice that Derek says it, but Stiles really can’t imagine a world where Derek Hale doesn’t fit in to the werewolf half of Beacon County. They trudge back up to the house together, and Stiles feels so affectionate towards his pseudo brother that he’d totally take his hand as they walked.

But he’s pretty sure Derek would hang him on a tree if he did.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

“He still skulking in the woods out back?”

Talia nods as Peter walks over from the stove, carrying the steaming teapot. She holds out her mug and he pours her tea gracefully. “Thank you.”

“It’s just tea,” Peter brushes off. “Easy to make.”

“I meant about with Stiles.” Talia regards her brother shrewdly. “Thank you for not making light of what happened. To his face at least.”

“That was less easy. But you’re welcome all the same.” Peter joins her at the window that overlooks the back yard. He’s got his own mug of tea—a bitter oolong to Talia’s sweet Darjeeling. From here all they can see is trees, but they both know that Derek followed Stiles out there. It isn’t even a question if he’s found him by now. “Rejection is hard,” Peter muses, “Almost makes me wonder if you should have waited to take him.”

Talia side-eyes him. “How can you say that? Of course it’s better that we found him at a young age.” She sighs. “His guidance counselor say that he fails to notice social cues from other wolves as it is.”

“Some things are more important than social cues,” Peter quips. “Like friends. He’d fit in better with humans.” At Talia’s displeased mumble he adds, “I’m not saying we should have left him there, just…” and this is the first time Peter even comes close to faltering, “We could have watched him. Closely. Gotten him out right before the change.”

“You’re thinking of his father?”

Peter refuses to look at her. “He could have had more time with him.”

“And been that much more shattered when we had to take him away?” She shakes her head. “No. We did what was best Peter. You of all people should know that lingering too long leads to disaster. And think of what those men did to that girl, _days_ before we took him.” Talia gives a disgusted grunt. “The climate towards wolves in the county had been slipping even before that travesty. If anyone in Beacon Hills had found out what he was…” She certainly doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Both She and Peter can think of multiple endings to it. “He’ll learn better now,” she tells him, almost as a consolation to soothe her earlier words. “Our behaviors, customs, even our biology. It’ll make the change easier. It’ll make everything he goes through a little less strange.” Turning from the window, Talia sits tiredly at one of the kitchen table’s chairs. “This way he goes into it knowing a little bit more.”

Peter nods solemnly, still looking out the window at the woods. “A hell of a lot more than I ever did.” The words are a murmur, not meant for Talia to hear (though of course she does). It’s her hardened resolve that speaks from the table behind him,

“He could know A LOT more,” she starts, not missing the way that Peter’s shoulders stiffen. “About himself. About what he’s going to mean to this pack.” 

Peter turns around, takes a calming sip of his tea. “No Talia. I’m not talking about this again.”

“I have every right to tell him,” she argues.

“You have NO right to tell him.” Peter’s voice is mad. This is an ongoing argument between him and his alpha, and it’s only through sheer respect that Talia hasn’t gone over his head in the matter yet. Peter doesn’t know what stupid thing he’d do if she did. “It’s not even relevant yet. Not really,” Peter argues, obstinately turning his back to her. He’s looking through the window again, and two sets of feet appear at the tree line outside. “He doesn’t need to know what Derek smelled on him years ago.”

“He’ll find out soon enough. He’s going to change. How long after that until he presents? How long until he finally pieces together that his born mate is—” 

“He deserves a childhood first!” Peter huffs, thinking of how much the kid hates him. Sometimes Peter wonders if he does it on purpose, just so that he can be the boogeyman to Talia’s hero. Has he always been this jaded? “Let it go Talia. Let Derek tell him when the time comes.” 

Talia doesn’t want to hear it but she stays quiet and goes to dump the rest of her tea. She catches sight of her son and Stiles through the small window by the sink. The two of them are walking up to the house. Stiles is holding onto Derek’s hand and Derek is looking like he’s barely restraining himself from yanking it away. She almost smiles at how things have turned out in their family. “He really is the only one that he’s let all the way in,” she says wistfully.

Peter frowns, trying not to have any reaction to this fact. It is true, after all. Derek is Stiles’ world. Talia sighs tiredly as she begins to rinse her mug and Peter looks over to her, wanting desperately to change the subject. Ever the king of tactless segues, he asks, “So: what did the doctors say?”

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--


	3. Chapter 3

The day comes when Stiles winds up alone with Peter for a prolonged period of time, and of course that’s the day that something dramatic happens. Nobody else is home and Peter has to do ‘something official’ in Beacon Hills. And since there’ve been stray wolves spotted in the county the past six months, neither Cora nor Stiles has been allowed to stay home alone. To a thirteen year old, it seems a very stupid rule. So Peter goes into town and for the first time since he was ten, Stiles goes too. 

They’re walking down the sidewalks of Beacon Hills, towards the mayor’s office. Stiles can recognize most of the main drag from when he used to live there. The hardware store that’d once been on the corner has been replaced with a pharmacy, but other than that the landscape is pretty much as he remembers. Stiles’ eyes stay carefully peeled for any car marked with the emblem of the sheriff’s department. He watches the various people walking about, curious and a little terrified that they’ll recognize him. They certainly recognize Peter. About half of the adults that they pass blanch upon seeing Peter, quickly turning the other way. A few children look twice at the man with the scar up his face, but Stiles knows that the adults are afraid for another reason. 

Peter is known as the face of werewolf justice. In two years, Stiles has learned this. “The Punisher” they call him. Stiles first heard the nickname from Cora. She’d thought it’d been great fun to tell her human step brother how their shared uncle was solely responsible for the execution of more than a dozen humans. Stiles himself just can’t understand. How does a person become so comfortable with violence?

Peter doesn’t seem keen on providing an answer. 

It’s cold out and Stiles wishes he’d remembered to bring a coat. They’ve just passed a book store that Stiles would have loved to go in to, but of course Peter is ignoring anything that Stiles might want, including the very human need for warmth. “Peter,” he says, “Can’t we go in somewhere?” He eyes the storefronts wistfully. “There’s a Starbucks over there.”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“I’m freezing!” 

Peter looks over, unfazed by Stiles’ complaint. “Are you?” For a second, Stiles thinks that Peter is going to do nothing, and Stiles prepares a nasty remark. “Here.” Peter’s removing his jacket in no time and slipping it about Stiles’ shoulders. It’s a shock, to say the least. “Better?” Now Peter stands in only his tee shirt.

Stiles blushes but he can’t say why. Peter’s jacket is too big in the shoulders for him, the material warmed from the werewolf’s body heat. Despite his dislike for the other man, Stiles cannot reject the offer, and winds up wrapping the sides of the coat tighter around his body. The leather smells like sugary, cinnamon-swirled dough, and he has to resist the urge to dig his nose into it. “What are we doing this for again?” he asks.

“I told you: I’m going to give the mayor a warning.”

Well. _That sounds dubious_. Stiles wonders what exactly it is that Peter considers a ‘warning’. Nothing good, he’s sure. “What did he do?” he asks instead.

Peter sighs, sparing a quick glance to the kid at his side. “He approved a permit for a public protest.”

“So?” Stiles shrugs. “Free speech is cool.”

“Not when it involves humans freely speaking their minds about us,” Peter snaps. “Yelling in the streets about how we're their oppressors? We can’t allow that sort of rhetoric to grow.”

Stiles isn’t 100% sure what ‘rhetoric’ is, but he does squinch his face at Peter’s words. “Why do we get the say in everything?” he questions. “I mean, humans aren’t stupid,” (Stiles should know, he still _is_ one). “They could just do things themselves. They have a mayor for a reason. You’re not the mayor.” 

Peter stops walking. “No,” he says, “I’m not. Talia is.”

“What? Nuh-uh she—”

“—she’s the mayor Stiles. She’s also the county inspector, the school board director, and the chief of police.” Stiles is probably looking very confused, because Peter explains to him, “We allow them official titles, elected positions, but those positions can be taken away and given to others. They’re just puppets, Stiles. The police, the court system; they’re only as real as we let them be. Everybody knows that.”

Stiles’ eyes go angry. “My dad is not a puppet.”

“Your dad is a smart man,” Peter returns sharply. “He understands the way that things are and he does his best to make life good for as many of his people as possible. You see Stiles, humans _could_ do things themselves. We just don’t allow them to. The last time we did that, our race was nearly annihilated.”

“Your race,” Stiles corrects.

“Yours too.” Peter combs a hand over his hair in aggravation, grumbles, “You just don’t get it.” A young woman walks by them where they stand on the sidewalk. She gives the both of them a wide berth and an ugly look as they pass. Peter pulls Stiles further to the side of the path, nodding, “Look at her Stiles. She isn’t alone. They’d run us out tomorrow if they could. You do realize that most humans hate us?” Stiles freezes and says nothing. He knows—he knows it more and more these past three years—he just doesn’t like to think about it. “Centuries of bickering have led to what we have now. It’s a fragile peace, and it’s imperfect, but it _is_ peace,” Peter tells him. 

Stiles would argue, but he’s just so demoralized by the state of things that all he can manage is an uninspired, “You suck.”

“So I’ve heard,” Peter quips dryly. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

 

Peter gives the mayor a talking to. It’s a mostly civil negotiation, with a few thinly-veiled threats to speed things along. There’s something highly disquieting to Stiles about watching Peter tell the mayor of Beacon Hills what to do, _or else_. It’s wrong. Stiles knows this. No matter what Peter says or how he justifies it, this power imbalance between the wolves and the humans is wrong. Stiles knows that he’ll feel that way even once he’s turned. Overall, it’s educational, if not specifically entertaining for Stiles to watch. Nothing violent happens, and for that Stiles is grateful. It’s on their way out of City Hall that shit really hits the fan.

First, Stiles begs and pleads and threatens to recite the opening credits to _A New Hope_ over and over again for the rest of the day if Peter doesn’t let him go in the book store. So one excited thirteen year old is soon browsing the shelves, trailed by a pissy werewolf. Stiles finds a promising novel and a really awesome comic book. He asks Peter to buy them for him. Peter acquiesces, but only on the novel. They leave sooner than he would like, but Stiles is happy enough because he has a new book and Peter’s leather jacket to keep him warm.

Back outside, on the walk back to the car, they pass a little park that has some benches and a bronze statue. A guy pops out from behind it, and at first it seems like he’s the only one. “Another day of justice served?” he asks them. His voice is already mean and angry and it surprises Stiles. Stiles’ first thought is that maybe the man is drunk, but he quickly realizes that this is not the case.

Another two men pop out from behind one side of the statue, then another three from the other side. Peter stops walking and his arm shoots out to stop Stiles too. “Wait,” he says lowly once Stiles is at his side.

“What’s happening?” Stiles asks.

“Be quiet.”

“Well if it isn’t the Punisher of Beacon County.” One of the humans says it. He’s standing at the front of the group and has an angry face to match his angry voice. If it wasn’t so screwed up with dislike, the man’s nose and mouth might actually bear a resemblance to Peter’s own. The rest of them look similarly agitated, and it makes Stiles nervous. He gets a bad feeling in his gut. “What are you doing in town, Peter?” The man spits Peter’s name out as if it is an acrid poison, foul-tasting and bad for you. 

Peter hasn’t a shred of a kind glance to spare any of the men, let alone this one. “Just minding my own business. I’d advise you to do the same,” he says darkly. He sounds defensive, and this puts Stiles even more on edge. Stiles glances nervously around for any sign of other people, but the side street that they’re on and the park are pretty quiet. “We’re leaving.” Peter grabs a hold of Stiles’ (well, technically Peter’s) jacket sleeve and pulls. “Come on Stiles.”

“Stiles?” The human man looks surprised, and he’s peering past Peter to get a better look at the kid. “Stiles… Stilinski?” 

“Like the sheriff’s son?” the men behind murmur.

Stiles wonders if he knows this guy. He frowns, “Uh, yeah?”

“I thought you were dead!” The man eyes up and down Stiles’ obviously not-dead body, a nasty look soon overshadowing any of the surprise that might have been there. “You’re a wolf too?” Several of the men laugh. “Wow! Now I’ve seen everything.” He looks at Peter cruelly. “Did you do it? Huh? Turn the fucking sheriff’s son into a mutt?” The four men look Stiles up and down like he’s an animal, less than human. “What else you do to him?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just stands there looking murderous. Stiles is convinced that Peter would lead them away, were it at all safe to turn their backs on this group of newcomers. He’s also convinced that Peter is going to kill the hell out of these men. “Your petition to publically protest has been denied,” Peter manages to grit through his teeth. 

This announcement makes the other man go a little red in the face. “So let me get this straight: you came in to town to tell us that we can’t talk about the way you run Beacon Hills? And you brought him?” The man gives Stiles a disgusted look, as if he’s some many-legged bug that crawled out from a crack somewhere. “For what? You returning him?”—More mean laughter—“Cause if so, we’ll take him off your hands if you want. I’m sure we could think of plenty of ways to welcome him back to the town he abandoned.” A switchblade, handle mostly concealed in the man’s palm, flicks out. “Plenty of ways.”

A low growl comes from Peter’s throat. “He was ten years old. He didn’t abandon shit. Don’t start something you can’t finish Eli.” Stiles spends a shocked second wondering how Peter knows this man’s name. Peter growls, and for a moment, it seems like the human men are riled up enough to do something about it. Their agitated, restless movements are hinting at a fight. But then Peter stands up straighter. He’s not the tallest guy amongst them but he sure seems like it after he lets a little bit of his wolf out. His eyes bleed red, his nails lengthen, his face gets a liiitle bit harrier. “Let’s not make headlines today,” Peter says over his elongated canines.

“Oh I can just see them now: ‘Beastly, feral werewolf massacres innocent townspeople in fit of animalistic rage,” the man called Eli simpers. “How long do you think it’ll take to get a posse of humans headed for your sister’s door in the middle of the night?”

“That’s not what the newspapers will say,” Peter tells him darkly. “If you don’t disband now, I’ll make sure that everyone in Beacon Hills hears how you tried to kidnap, rape, torture and kill the only known human-born shifter in the county; an innocent, thirteen year old, human _boy_.” The men’s faces blanch at the threat, and Peter scowls, “See how warm of a reception you get after that.”

Stiles, naïve kid that he is, hadn’t realized that this angry confrontation had been geared mainly at _him_. It’s a shock to hear, and even as he’s internalizing that, he can’t get over the word _rape_. Like, _whoa_ , what the heck and back the fuck up. Who even mentioned rape?! When was this brought into rape-ish territory?! Eli is hearing none of this. He looks furious. Features contorted in some clay-like amalgamation of what should have been a handsome face, he shouts, “Well it’s not like he’s the first freak to go and turn on his own kind, is he? I’ll tell you what Peter, they should’ve burned you to a crisp!” 

Peter’s grip around Stile’s wrist tightens to near-pain, though Stiles is pretty sure that Peter means him no harm. In front of him, Peter lets loose the most feral sound that Stiles has ever heard from a were in their human form. It’s startling enough to have all six men in a defensive stance. “Stiles,” he says, sounding more animal than human, “Start walking back to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

“What?” Something resembling a breathy laugh leaves him. “No way! I’m not going anywhere by myself.” For all he knows, these men will kill Peter and be on him next. And yeah, Stiles is a little bit scared shitless. He really, really doesn’t want to do anything that involves leaving Peter right at this moment. Smart kid that he is, he knows that if these men were to get him alone, he’d have almost no way to fight them. Never before has Stiles wished so much to be a wolf. 

The men’s disdain for them grows as Stiles has the audacity to finally speak. “Peter,” he pleads with the older man, “Let’s just go. They can’t hurt us, right?” God he hopes not. “Peter this is stupid!” Stiles tugs his wrist where Peter has a hold of him. “These guys are just a bunch of thugs right? Let’s go!” Stiles can see pure hatred in their eyes and more then hurtful, it is just downright _startling_. It’s startling to see people that he doesn’t even know, want to eviscerate him. 

One of the men—Eli—snarls and comes forward at Stiles. Peter is faster than all of them, so it is sheer luck that the guy even gets close. Stiles gives a little shriek and flaps his hands at the man in an attempt to escape being grabbed, yelling, “Ahwhat no!” But the man tries again and this time he gets a hold of Stiles’ other arm. Stiles' new book falls to the ground with a thud. By this point, an angry human has a hold of half of him and Peter a hold of the other, and Stiles can see this turning into a tug-of-war of body-ripping proportions. Eli snarls over Stiles’ head at Peter,

“You healed most of your burns, but like you said: he’s still human.”

“For now,” one of the men behind spits.

“He won’t be able to heal so well,” Eli hisses. “If we light him up, he’ll do exactly what you should’ve done; die.” He gives Stiles’ arm one big, sudden yank, and for a second Peter loses his grip, Stiles is utterly convinced that he’s going to die, and the other humans step forward as if they’ve won this battle.

Peter swipes out with a clawed hand and puts that illusion to an abrupt end. 

 

Blood winds up getting sprayed on Stiles, a messy spatter of red-black droplets on his face and hair. It isn’t until they’re back in the car that Stiles notices this though. He’s still somewhat traumatized by the fact that a group of random strangers tried to assault him, and that Peter then killed one of them. Violently. Stiles catches sight of himself in the visor’s mirror and starts flailing, very upset that he looks like he just bit a chicken’s head off—or something. “What the? What the fuuck?” He wipes frantically at the drying specks on his face. “Peter!” His breaths start coming in panicked, wheezy puffs—the start of a panic attack.

Peter grabs him to stop him, holding him still. “You’re fine,” he rushes, most of his body leaning over from the driver’s seat to calm the flailing kid. Perhaps Peter can sense his panic because he’s speaking calmly, soothingly. “Stiles breathe, just breathe. You’re fine. Nobody hurt you and nobody will ever. I’ll make sure of it.”

“But… but…” Stiles is gaping. Those men had wanted to _kill_ him. They had laughed and joked about how they’d burn him alive. This is not information that a kid Stiles’ age should have to deal with. He wants to snap this fact at Peter, but he’s hyperventilating too much to get it out. “They, they…”

“They’re not going to try it again,” Peter promises him. “I will never let anyone hurt you.” Carefully, gently, he reaches into the glove box for some tissues and starts cleaning Stiles with them. There’s almost a tenderness to the way that he wipes the blood off, and all Stiles can do is sit there numbly and let himself be cared for.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The door to the office in which Stiles is most definitely _not_ supposed to be snooping is unlocked and opened in a matter of seconds. It’s sheer luck that nothing is out of place yet, and in retrospect, Stiles will have to applaud himself for being able to scuttle out of view so quickly. The office door flies open.

“We’ll talk in here.” 

It’s Peter’s voice coming from the hall just outside, and Stiles curses his luck that whatever is happening has to be happening right now, right here. Stiles knows that Peter knows that he is hiding in the closet. He isn’t a werewolf yet, but the thirteen year old doesn’t need super powers to know that there is no way in hell that Peter Hale doesn’t hear his heartbeat, smell his scent, the moment that he guides three other people into the room. The guy has always had an annoying knack for scenting Stiles about as easily as Stiles can scent him (plus, it’s not the first time Peter’s caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing in the office).

Stiles tenses up the second the door slams shut. It takes a moment, but he quickly ascertains that it is Peter, another man and a lady, and a teenage boy about Derek’s age. They all look pretty much terrified, and so Stiles figures they must be humans. Most humans have that reaction around Peter. He’s the Hale family’s primary enforcer, after all. Outside the closet, Peter is speaking,

“Mr. and Mrs. Forrester, please take a seat.” He rounds the desk to sit in his own office chair. When he does, his blue eyes bore right into the crack of the closet doors where Stiles is hiding. Stiles erupts in goosebumps and jerks in a little panic. But Peter quickly returns his attention to the humans, telling them, “I apologize I have no chair to offer your son, but he’s the one who’s caused all this trouble so maybe it’s appropriate for him to stand.”

Mrs. Forrester—ostensibly the boy’s mother—looks worriedly over to her husband. “H-he didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” she says. “It was an accident.”

“So you say,” Peter agrees mildly. “And so it would appear. At first glance.” Peter turns his attention to the boy, who is to his credit, standing quite resolutely near the office wall. He looks subdued, but in the most defiant way possible. He has that in common with his father Stiles supposes. Mr. Forrester is sitting with crossed arms and a wary but steady gaze fixed on Peter. The woman between them seems to be the most worried of all. Peter draws a thin stack of papers from a desk drawer, spreading them out to read, “Fire originated in a rusted out steel barrel in the immediate back yard of the property. Assailant stated that he and a friend were trying to start a bonfire, after which they had planned to try and enter the winter property of Mr. Gregory Hook.” Peter looks up to the boy. “So you decided to trespass on wolf territory, without a travel permit, and then break into a stranger’s home?”

“He wasn’t there. It was just a cabin. Empty for the season so who cares if I broke in?! I wasn’t gonna do anything. I didn’t torch the place on purpose,” the teenager sneers. In the closet, Stiles can’t help wishing that the boy would know better than to talk like that to Peter. 

Peter however, answers him quite calmly. “It’s obviously likely that you’re lying. Apart from the fact that you were already criminally-inclined enough to commit yourself to breaking and entering the property, there is also the fact that you managed to completely destroy a werewolf’s house.”

“I didn’t know a were lived there,” the kid hisses. “We were just having fun in the woods.”

Peter inhales deeply and sits back in his chair. “Yes,” he says on the exhale. “Your camping buddy said as much, and we let him go.” When it looks like the boy might puff up in triumph, Peter adds: “But then again he didn’t have a manifesto decrying the plight of werewolves’ existence.” Reaching out, Peter takes hold of a seemingly standard notebook and slaps it roughly on the surface of the desk in front of him. Its cover is flipped under, the scribbled pages exposed, and it’s only when he shoves it a bit closer in the boy’s direction that the kid seems to recognize it. The muscles around his mouth clench up in fear, and it is definitely warranted because Peter has let a bit of his wolf slip through, unnaturally red eyes glowering at the teenager in confrontation. “Would you permit me to read some of your more… _prosaic_ entries? I believe there is even one in here that specifically mentions your alpha.”

Stiles thinks that the kid looks like he’s just lost a lot of blood. Specifically from the face-region-area. _Holy shit, this is going to get epic_. He inhales a little too sharply or something because Peter stares once again to the crack in the closet door. This time Stiles isn’t as surprised and he stares right back, almost hoping that Peter can see him. Yeah, he’s spying, so what? Peter won’t confront him now because it will make him look weak. 

“She’s not my alpha,” the kid bursts out. “We’re not filthy animals!” He’s angry, and now since he’s so scared, he’s being stupid enough to let the anger show. “We. aren’t. your. subjects.” Peter sits back at his outburst. He looks almost disappointed at the direction the conversation has taken.

“Mr. Hale this was a stupid teenage adventure gone awry,” the father is claiming. “My son doesn’t deserve your justice. Let me just pay for the damages and we’ll go.”

Peter looks unimpressed. “Our justice?” he says. “Mr. Forrester, ‘our’ justice is everyone’s justice. The law is the law.”

“Wolves make the law,” the man mutters darkly, an echo of his son. “We just have to follow it.”

“That’s exactly right,” Peter snaps, tone suddenly not as friendly. “You do. And your son didn’t break a window or smash a mailbox, he incinerated a family’s winter cabin—a cabin which I’m sure he didn’t search thoroughly enough to know that there were no people inside.” Peter doesn’t look as amused now as he did when this started off. “I’ve seen the damage that fire can do…” His fingers travel up to skirt airily over the scars that lick up the side of his face. Stiles isn’t even sure Peter knows that he is doing it. Mrs. Forrester looks ready to throw up. Peter tells her, “It is _fascinating_ how quickly skin melts.”

“I told you: the trees above caught fire!” the boy argues loudly. “I didn’t—”

“—I don’t want to hear what you didn’t do,” Peter says cutting him off. “What you did do was break the law in several ways. What you did do was destroy over a million dollars’ worth of property. What you did do was publicly tout your anti-wolf rhetoric to all of your friends and I can imagine who else. You, my dear boy, let your hate guide your actions.”  
“Now you can’t prove that,” the kid’s father argues, sounding angry. “You can’t prove that he did this on purpose.”

“I don’t have to prove anything. We’re just here for sentencing.”

“Excuse me?!” Now the mother seems upset. She’s battling back tears to argue, “But what about a trial?” Even with the power imbalance between the wolves and humans, fair trials usually come about. “Won’t he get a trial?”

Peter looks at her with a vacant expression, and it makes Stiles’ face feel a little cold to see it. “Are you familiar with the Argent family?” he asks. 

Nobody deems to answer him until Mr. Forrester gives a clipped, “Yes.”

“So you know that thirty years ago, the last family to wage war against the wolves of Beacon County were forcibly turned?” Peter looks at them smugly. “A fitting punishment, don’t you think? Werewolf hunters made into the very thing they refuse to stop hating. And now they… share our interests.” He lifts a hand, allowing the claws of his beta form to push through. “Would you like to share our interests as well?”

Mrs. Forrester squeaks while the father and son stare, shocked. Stiles knows that in this circumstance, the bite is not an offer; it’s a threat. He waits with baited breath to see what will happen next. When nobody speaks up to his obviously rhetoric question, Peter sighs. He retracts his claws and continues, “Like I said: your son publicly, willfully disrupted the peace between our communities. And we’re just here for sentencing.”

The woman seems to tremble at this. The man and the son too really. They might have protested but Peter hurriedly continues on, “Now, I assume that your son got his lovely views from being raised by the two of you, so really you’re all to blame when you think about it. But only one of you is going to pay.” Peter smiles at them then. Actually _smiles_. In the closet, Stiles thinks that Peter has always had a knack for acting mildly sociopathic. Peter asks them next, “Who purchased the accelerant and the matches?”

“What?”

He shrugs as if this whole matter means nothing to him. “This was an arbitrary crime so I’m choosing an arbitrary measure of guilt. Who. bought. the stuff?” None of them dare to answer him, and Peter is eventually forced to give a long-suffering sigh. Picking the phone up from its cradle, he dials a number and speaks to a person on the other end of the line. “I have them here,” he says. “What was the name on the card that made the purchase?” 

When he hangs up it looks like any of the three people before him might pee themselves. Peter addresses the kid, “Congratulations you little shit. You get to go home.” He tosses the incriminating notebook out for the teen to catch with scrabbling hands. “I’d recommend a bit of editing.” Finally, Peter stands, and when it seems like nobody will do anything he rounds the desk himself and grabs Mrs. Forrester by the arm. “You can take your dad home with you. Everybody always sends mom to do all the shopping.” He hauls her to her feet. She shrieks right away and fights, but of course to no avail. Stiles watches, horrified but not surprised that her struggles are useless. Werewolves are superior to humans in almost every way; that’s been drummed into him the entire three years that he’s been in the preserve. Peter pulls Mrs. Forrester from the room as if she weighs about five pounds. Her husband and son pursue, but Stiles figures that there are other enforcers waiting in the hall to stop them. 

 

He sits there in the bottom of the closet long after Mrs. Forrester’s shrieks have faded away. He supposes that there are a million and one ways that Peter could have executed her…

Stiles waits to leave the closet because he fears Peter might come back. Only once there has been lack of any noise for quite a while does he venture back out into the office. Everything is as it had been. In their haste to leave, the Forresters shoved the chairs askew, but everything else remains the same. Stiles rounds the desk, wondering how many lives Peter or some other person has upended in this very room. Talia likes to say that werewolf justice isn’t always kind, but it is always just. Stiles isn’t so sure. 

Sitting in the desk’s chair, Stile looks through the papers that Peter had spread on the table top. It’s a police report that he’d been reading aloud to Mr. and Mrs. Forrester—the official county documentation of the vandalism that’d been committed. Right below the description of the actual events is a list of charges against the youngest Forrester: _Distribution of unauthorized educational materials, Hate speech, Incitement of public discord, Trespassing, Arson, Travel without permit, Destruction of property._ Some of them are felonies, some are crimes that only humans can commit. It seems excessive, to say the least. Stiles thumbs the pages apart, shocked to see his own father’s name stamped on them. _Sheriff John Stilinski,_ it says. Clear as day. It gives him pause to wonder what say, if any at all, his father has in the execution of the law. By the looks of this document, it seems very little.

In three years, Stiles has heard near to nothing of his father. He received those first letters, discreetly handed over by Talia, at the beginning. By now Stiles has figured out that the alpha allowed that early communication to help her young charge cope with the transition, and he’s thankful for that. It didn’t last though. If there’s one thing that his new family hasn’t had to drill into him, it is the understanding that everyone had a side, chosen or given. Wolf or human, you stay with your own. Period. He’s with the wolves now, Stiles knows that, has reconciled himself to it. But he feels at least a little gratitude to see that his father is still the sheriff of Beacon Hills. After what’s happened with him, he’s been unsure if Talia or even perhaps the humans of Beacon Hills would force his father out of such a public position. He’s glad that he hasn’t completely ruined his father’s life.

“Miss you dad,” he mutters to his father’s stamped signature. 

Peter, of course, chooses this exact moment to return. “Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles looks up sharply from the papers he’s been examining. He nearly topples out of the imposing desk chair, feeling like a usurper to the throne of Peter Hale. “What? H-hey!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet and aiming for casual nonchalance. “Heyyya Peter. What’s ticking—cooking?—shaking! What’s… up?”

Peter seems undaunted by his hyperactive display of nerves. But then again, Peter always seems to have him figured out (just another of the man’s character flaws, in Stiles’ opinion). With a sigh Peter drapes himself in one of the Forrester’s abandoned chairs. He cuts right to the chase. “Alright, I’m bursting with curiosity: why were you hiding there in the first place?”

Stiles blusters. “Pffft- _WOW!_ No I wasn’t… , _hiding_ , I was… meditating.” Stiles likes it the moment he says it. “Yeah, meditating.” He shrugs. “I have ADHD you know. It’s a serious psychological condition.”

“Mmmhm,” peter disagrees, tight-lipped. “Requiring quiet time in closets?”

“It calms me,” Stiles says dramatically. He knows of course that Peter isn’t buying into one ounce of the bullshit he’s hocking, but it doesn’t really matter because no way is Stiles going to admit the real reason why he’s been snooping around the office (looking for a confiscated driver’s license at Derek’s behest). The older wolves already give him shit for following after Derek like a lost puppy.

“You want to talk about it? Peter asks plainly, and somehow Stiles just knows that he isn’t referring to the therapeutic merit of closets. He’s talking about what Stiles witnessed.

“Nope.” Stiles shakes his head energetically, eyes mapping his escape path out of the room. “Not really. I’ll just be going.”

“Being scary is half of how we keep them in line, you know,” he says flippantly. “Keeping school children telling awful, made-up stories to their classmates. It helps us to control them.”

“You mean me. People like me.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Not for long.”

Stiles ignores that. It is apparent to everyone that the change will happen soon for him. Instead, he accuses, “You didn’t have to kill her.”

Peter looks bored. “Would you rather I have killed her son?”

“Um NO. How about not killing nobody? Ever think of that?”

“Killing is easy and cheap. They hated us and their hate cost them the person they love most. Besides, they have to understand that displays of dissent won’t be tolerated. It’s as much for their protection as it is ours.” Stiles scoffs, and Peter fixes him with a knowing look. “Of course you don’t approve. That’s fine. You have an idyllic sense of how the world could be. You see injustices in black in white. And you should. I’m _glad_ that you do. But Stiles I see them in grey. And I can promise you that all of those things that you hate about me and what I do? Well… they’re better than what the world had before the treaty. They’re better than war.”

“Did Talia teach you that?” Stiles hopes not. He really likes her.

“I taught it to myself,” Peter snaps at him. “Don’t think you’re the first person who’s ever felt disenfranchised with where they ended up. You’re not.”

Stiles gulps. “Yeah,” he counters shakily. “Says the guy who’s a member of the reigning Hale pack. Says the freaking number two of the whole county.”

“Stiles…” Peter growls in annoyance. Suddenly, he’s RIGHT THERE. His claws are out and he’s got them up to Stiles’ throat, whip-fast and making the boy shriek a little bit. Stiles is really much too clever for a thirteen year old, and certainly too clever for his own good. Slowly, quite quietly, Peter leans in near his ear and hisses, “I wasn’t always so privileged.” Stiles has to hold his breath, unsure of what’s coming next. Peter’s always been different, but is he cuckoo enough to actually hurt Stiles? In alpha Talia’s own house? He doesn’t know. “Get out,” Peter breathes. 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate to do just that.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

“Your uncle’s an asshole.”

Derek looks up from the table saw that he’s been operating. He laughs a little, “You’re just figuring this out?” At Stiles’ tight-lipped silence, he says, “He’s not my uncle.”

“Whatever.”

“Did you get my license back?”

“Um,” Stiles pauses in guilt. “Well… no.” He winces as Derek turns back away again, giving all of his attention to his work. 

“Why are you here whining to me about Peter then?” he asks, hands running a plank of wood smoothly through the whirling teeth of the blade. He lets the two pieces fall noisily to the ground. “He catch you?”

“Pft. Yeah.” Stiles throws himself into one of the lawn chairs that occupies the floor of the garage. “And in typical creepy-ass fashion he gave me this whole lecture about how killing people to control them is like… a good idea and stuff.”

Derek makes a weird face. “What the hell did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Stiles’ hands flail in the air to emphatically support this claim. “I don’t get why he takes your stuff anyway. You’re like, grown up now.” It’s true. Or true enough to Stiles anyway. To him, seventeen does seem very grown-up indeed, and Derek has grown up in all the right ways. This is what has had Stiles following him around all summer since school let out, risking life and limb to recover the guy’s precious license. Like any big brother would do, Derek entertained Stiles back when he was heartbroken and homesick. But now Stiles wants more, and Derek of course has no clue. “I mean it’s not like he’s your dad.”

“Shut up Stiles,” Derek huffs. “He’s not my uncle either.” Abandoning his work, he steps to the side of the room and pulls up his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Stiles forgets to breathe for a second. There is a small cooler plugged into one wall of the garage and Derek opens it, rooting around for a beer. He comes out holding two, and takes the lawn chair across from Stiles’ own. Stiles can’t help but to look longingly at both the man and the extra beer. 

“So one of those is for me, right?” 

Derek scoffs. “You’re thirteen!”

“So?! We’re in your garage at one in the afternoon. What’s going to happen?” Stiles waits eagerly. He’s almost fourteen anyways, he wants to argue.

His patience is rewarded by Derek tossing him the unopened bottle, swigging some of his own back and saying, “Don’t tell my mom.”

It kind of annoys Stiles that Derek still insists on saying “my” mom every time. Cora doesn’t do that. Laura doesn’t. But Stiles has his beer so he holds up two fingers and says, “I won’t tell. Scout’s honor.”

Derek ignores him as he drinks his beer, and for a while they just sit like that, sipping in their chairs in the garage, the early summer heat and distant hum of cicadas surrounding them. The garage smells like motor oil and wood, and though Stiles sort of kind of knows that he’s always forcing his way into the guy’s company on days like this, he’s just glad that Derek lets him. So far, there has been nothing that Stiles likes doing on the preserve better than simply hanging out with Derek. He thinks—had always thought—that Derek Hale is the coolest, the smartest, most awesome werewolf there is. It’s only recently that he’s begun thinking of him as the most attractive as well. Though he’ll never be stupid enough to let Derek know that.

After a few more minutes Stiles meets his limit of not talking and says, “What did you mean?”

“What did I mean about what?”

“About Peter. What did you mean when you said he’s not your uncle? I mean… he kind of is.”

Derek raises one eyebrow at him, finally looking his way. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Peter’s not related to my family,” Derek says. “He’s just like you—some human kid that changed.” 

It isn’t nice the way he says it: ‘some human kid’, but Stiles ignores that. Instead he just focuses on how surprising this news is “What the… _What?_ "

“We didn’t get to him early like we did with you,” Derek remarks. “He was older. He’d already changed by the time my grandfather found him and brought him back here.”

“Already—” Stiles falters. He’s never considered the possibility of changing back in Beacon Hills. He’s never thought of what could have happened if Derek hadn’t smelled him first. He thinks about the scar that runs up Peter's cheek, about the human man called Eli who had taunted Peter about it. Talia had always claimed that people would have tried to hurt Stiles. “Did… did people hurt him?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know for sure. But I think so,” Derek says cryptically. “I was only a little kid when it happened. Somebody locked him up and they called my grandfather to get him. He came to live with us after that.”

Stiles gapes. He feels totally duped. How has no one told him this in three years? Was it some sort of secret? After the shock wears off Stiles feels totally violated that nobody has told him this. That there was another human-born wolf right. there! Frankly he feels violated that of all people, it has to be Peter that shares this in common with him. Stiles karate chops the air. “Waitwaitwait! So… he wasn’t even born a werewolf, and he’s _still_ totally psycho?!”

“He’s not psycho Stiles.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Trust me, the guy’s evil.” Stiles can’t believe it! He can’t believe that the man whom he’s witnessed acting so callously towards humans had actually _been_ one. “You suck Derek!”

“You’re just embarrassed that you didn’t know,” Derek accuses. “I mean come on, did you really think he was my mom’s brother? He’s like, barely ten years older than me.” When Stiles only stares at him over his beer, Derek laughs. “God, you’re such a dumb kid.” He stands back up to start working again.

“I’m not a kid,” Stiles protests, feeling hurt that Derek would say that to him. 

“Good, otherwise I’d be contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” Derek nods towards Stiles’ beer. He picks up another board and begins cutting it into pieces as he’d done the other.

“What are you building?” Stiles asks between bursts of the machine’s loud slicing. Derek puts another board through before he answers.

“I’m redoing the siding of the shed out back.”

Stiles perks up, all talk of Peter forgotten. “The big one?”

“That’s the one.” 

Stiles has to restrain himself from performing a very uncool fist pump where he sits. Derek and Stiles have talked for years about turning the old structure on the Hale’s property into an official hangout space. They’ve planned how it’ll be a place where they’ll have all their coolest and most private stuff, a place where they’ll watch whatever they want to on pay per view and listen to music as loudly as they want to. It’ll be a place where Derek can sneak them junk food and booze and maybe dirty magazines! Stiles will avoid homework, and Laura and Cora are definitely not allowed in. Only cool people like Derek and Danny and maybe Boyd can enter. 

Stiles bounces to his feet. “Man Cave, here we come!” He takes a large swig of his beer, wincing away the sour taste. He’ll learn to like it eventually. “So,” he says excitedly at Derek’s side, suddenly very interested in what the guy is doing. “How can I help? Any posters need purchasing? Or couches. Couches are very important you know. We should probably select one together. I’m thinking la-Z-boy.”

“It’s not for you Stiles.”

Stiles pauses, enthusiasm still on his face. “Well yeah but I mean my butt is sitting on half of it so I should get a say too.”

“Not the couch, the whole thing.” Derek turns the table saw off, looking annoyed. “I’m fixing it up for Kate.”

Stiles stills, smile fading. “Kate? Kate Argent?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles hates the way Derek’s face gets all nice-looking at the mention of her name. “So she can have a place to stay. Once we start college we can study out there.”

Stiles feels like he’s drank sour milk. “Why can’t she just study at her parents’ house?” It isn’t as if the Argents don’t have just as nice of a house as the Hales.

“She hates it there,” Derek says impatiently, nudging past Stiles to grab another board from the floor. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young. You’ve never had to live under your parents’ roof when all you wanted to do was get the hell out.”

“I am a teenager now. It’s bound to happen,” Stiles protests sourly. He doesn’t like Derek telling him that he’s too young, treating him like a kid.

“Yeah well Talia’s my mom, not yours,” Derek bites out, probably not realizing the way that Stiles’ face wrinkles with hurt. “She’ll never try to control you the way she does us.”

“So you’re just going to hole up with Kate in the shed all summer?” Stiles barks, not liking that idea at all. “What is she, your girlfriend now?”

Derek just raises his eyebrows at him, looking pleased. “I dunno. Maybe.” He goes back to sawing wood, and Stiles sulks himself right out of the garage.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Danny comes over after school to do homework. Or at least, that’s what they tell Talia. Stiles waits until he can hear her car start up outside the house before he thumps his algebra textbook closed. “Come on,” he tells Danny, “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” 

Danny Mahealani is the son of a neighbor and Stiles’ classmate at the preserve school. He’s one of the first kids Stiles’ own age who gave him a chance when he’d first showed up from Beacon Hills. He’s mostly nice, a little aloof, quiet, sarcastic, and very sporty. Other than the sarcasm he has almost nothing in common personality-wise with Stiles, but Stiles kind of likes that. The last thing he’d needed in a friend all those years ago was someone who reminded him of Scott. Stiles used to suspect (and occasionally still does) that Danny only hangs around because of the novelty that he’s human. Danny’s popular, and having Stiles there to answer all the other kids’ prying questions about the humans of Beacon Hills is a pretty cool party trick. So Stiles answers them. And he sits with Danny at lunch and is never bullied at school and life is just peachy. Yes, his friendship with Danny might come at a price, but he still hangs around. It’s a symbiosis. 

The two of them trudge into the woods behind the Hales’ house. The forest of the preserve is the largest in the state, so there’s plenty of room to explore. In the three years he’s been there, Stiles is fairly sure that he and the other kids have barely mapped a fraction of it. Of course it’s a good thing that the ‘other kids’ are all werewolves, otherwise Stiles would have ended up on the back of a milk carton a long time ago. Navigation is not his forté. Stiles knows that the forest goes on forever, and that not all of it is Hale territory. Eventually the next county happens, and then Nevada after that. He and Danny have been warned more than once to watch out for how far their “adventures” take them. Other territories mean other packs, Talia says. And other packs mean potential danger.

But running away hasn’t been Stiles’ intention for a long time. It certainly isn’t now. Right now, Stiles just wants to get as far away from Derek as he can. It’s hard, after all, to face the fact that your crush has his sights set on someone else. Stiles isn’t just hurt; he’s a little peeved too. Stupid Derek. Of course he doesn’t think Stiles is cool, doesn’t think he’s worth the time of day. Derek’s too busy with his head up his ass, thinking Kate Argent is something special, to even notice how awesome Stiles himself is. Stupid Derek. Secretly, Stiles hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that he’s younger than Derek. Or even worse: that it’s because he’s human. 

That’s not supposed to last too much longer anyway. 

“Dude, what are we doing out here?” Danny asks after they’ve been trudging through the underbrush for a good ten minutes.

“Um: _having fun_?” Stiles says as if it’s obvious.

“Is there a point to this fun?” 

“Sure there is.” Stiles thwacks a branch away from his face. “We’re going to find the biggest tree out here, and we’re going to build a treehouse in it.” More specifically, they are going to build a treehouse that is bigger, better, and a thousand times cooler than anything Derek can turn the big shed into. Once Derek sees it, he’ll never want to spend the summer with Kate in that old shack. “It’s going to be great.”

Danny stops walking altogether at that. It’s only when Stiles notices and turns around to look that he says, “A treehouse?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“Ah, maybe that we’re too old for it? Tree houses are stupid Stiles. Do you even know how to build one?”

“Well…” Stiles frowns. “No. But we’ll figure it out.” They can steal Derek’s power tools if they have to.

“I’m not building a tree house,” Danny states, turning in his path to head back towards the Hale house. “You are such a nerd. Come on. Let’s just explore or something.”

“Hey! No. Wait up!” Stiles jogs backwards through the underbrush, tripping a little over his own feet. 

 

They wind up further into the preserve than they usually go. Familiar landmarks have passed behind now and Stiles keeps a careful eye on the land they pass, lest he need to retrace his steps. He doesn’t yet have the werewolf senses that Danny does, but he tries to practice when he can. 

There’s a medium-sized bluff of rocks that runs along a leafy ravine. It’s cool-looking enough, so the two of them trudge along it for a while, Stiles stopping every few seconds to flip over a rock to see what’s living underneath. He keeps thinking about how the next full moon is coming up (in a werewolf household, the lunar cycle is religiously mapped-out on the calendar). Stiles is growing nervous with each passing month. He’s nearly fourteen now and everyone says that he’ll change soon. Stiles isn’t upset to be a werewolf—he hasn’t been for a long time—but he is scared. He worries it will hurt. They keep walking and Stiles keeps flipping rocks. Eventually, even the centipedes and salamanders can’t keep the question from forming on his lips. “Hey Danny?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s it like to change?”

Danny stops, perhaps because he knows right away what his friend means by ‘change’. Danny’s quick like that. “Woah,” he says. “Why… why are you asking me?”

Stiles shrugs, sitting down at the edge of the bluff. “I dunno. I guess because I know you don’t care. You’ll just tell me.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean: Talia will only try to make me feel better. Laura too. Derek? He’ll try to impress me. And Peter… well, Peter would definitely try to scare me.” He frowns, considering for a moment. “Cora would too, probably.” Danny snorts. He sits himself down next to Stiles, and their legs dangle over the side of the bluff. “I’ve seen them do it,” Stiles puts out there. He doesn’t want Danny to think that he’s _that_ sheltered. He has seen his entire adopted family butt-naked, shifting into wolves. After his childhood home and his father, embarrassment over nudity was one of the first things a ten year old Stiles had been encouraged to abandon. He has yet to manage though. “I’ve seen them Beta shifted and their real wolves too. They’re all black, like their hair,” he offers. “Except Peter. He’s grey-ish.” Stiles figures it must be because Peter isn’t actually a Hale by birth (something he’s _still_ shocked to learn, by the way). “But I’ve… I’ve never asked them about it. And I want to know. I want to know the truth. They keep telling me it’s going to happen soon. I don’t know how they all know but—”

“—they can sense it,” Danny interrupts. “I can too. It’s not a smell or anything, but more like… like it just feels a little different to be around you. It’s coming from my wolf but I’m not sure what it means.” He twists his mouth. “You’re the first were I’ve met who wasn’t born that way.”

“Peter?” Stiles asks, wondering if Danny knows about that.

“Yeah. But he’d already changed when I met him.” Danny blinks. “Okay. So what do you want to know?”

Stiles doesn’t even hesitate. “Does it hurt?” 

“Yeah. But it’s not so bad. Not like you’d think. It’s almost a good kind of hurt? Like when you get a massage to a really sore muscle. It’s also good that way.”

Stiles puzzles over that. It’s not the worst answer Danny could have given, but the whole werewolf thing still doesn’t sound so pleasant. He’s got about fifty more questions lined up in his mental queue, and he hurries to start asking them before Danny can wise up and start walking off again.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Masturbation in a household of werewolves is a risky endeavor. 

Of course this doesn’t stop Stiles from jerking it whenever he can. He figured it all out back when he was twelve, woke up with a chub one day, and then just decided to… touch it. So that’s given him a solid two years of practice. Stiles thinks that in a way it’s more exciting, knowing that he has to be sneaky whenever he wants to rub one out. Maybe it’s a little perverted that he thinks it’s hot to get off when his whole family is in the house, but Stiles has never claimed to not be perverted. He could turn out to be quite perverted. He’s fourteen and he’s already on a roll, after all.

Scented candles and incense are enough to make sure that nobody smells anything untoward. Sound is a bit more difficult. First off, Stiles becomes an expert at the art of the silent orgasm, but he also saves up for a sound system that’s almost as nice as the one Derek has in his room. It is at this point that Stiles begins to wonder if Derek has invested in quality audio equipment for the same reason as him. And oh, the thought of Derek doing _that_ to himself instantly becomes one of Stiles’ most useful fantasies. 

 

It’s the weekend. Stiles is bored to death and has nothing better to do. Two p.m. is a pretty dead time in the Hale house on a Saturday. Still, Stiles makes sure to light the little triangles of incense he’d bought at the mall. He puts the stereo on, lowers the blinds, and it is go time. 

He lies down on his bed, half-hard just from the knowing of what’s coming. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pajama pants and pulls them off in one deft move. He’s not patient enough to take his shirt off, so he just rucks it up to feel more naked. Stiles runs both hands over the very lowest part of his stomach, feeling the muscles clench there, teasing himself for the barest second. Though not yet a wolf, he’s hit human puberty by now, so lots of interesting things happen these days. One of them is that his dick is like, way bigger than it used to be. And when it gets hard? Pshh, it’s fucking amazing. Stiles approves. 

There’s a light trail of hair that leads from his navel to between his legs. He presses his hand down further, wrapping his fingers lightly around himself, and _man_ does that first touch feel good. He gives himself a few easy strokes, playing lightly with the head of his cock until he gets a little more aroused. He runs his free hand experimentally up his chest, then down over the inside of his thigh. The tight, coily feeling in his core grows, and so does… _well, you know._

He lets his eyes fall shut, his hand meeting the base of his cock on each stroke. He tries to work himself up even further, but the friction is almost too much. Stiles peeks briefly out of one eye towards the bed stand and reaches out for a quick squirt of lube—which, _okay_ , might be lotion but he’s too embarrassed to buy actual lube at the store. His grip tightens, and now he’s able to give himself a firm squeeze as he pulls on his slicked cock. Already he has to hold back a groan, lips parting at the feeling of getting that first, good stroke in. His breathing deepens, coming through his nose. _Now_ this feels good. 

He closes his eyes again, settling back against the duvet to pick a scenario from his spank bank (he’s recently learned what that term means). He winds up settling on the one he most usually does: Derek. His favorite images of Derek alone in his own room, touching himself just like Stiles is now, come easily to mind. Stiles pictures Derek’s body—he’s actually seen the guy naked so it really isn’t that hard to do. He imagines Derek’s hands running over the muscled planes of his own body, pulling on his thick cock. Stiles thinks of the faces that Derek would make, the sounds that would come out of him. Stiles imagines being the one that Derek imagines when he touches himself. All of these things, of course, get Stiles off.

Stiles doesn’t know what Derek would do if he found out that his pseudo-adopted brother jerks it on the regular to him. He imagines that Derek might punch him right in the face. That image does little to diminish Stiles’ erection though. He starts to get hot, squirming on top of the too-thick blankets of his bed as he really gets into it, twisting over his cockhead with one hand and tugging his balls with the other. He reaches back to run the tip of a finger just barely over his asshole every once in a while. This asshole-touching thing is a very recent development, and Stiles is pretty sure that it’s shocking and weird. He likes it though and so he continues to touch back there, even though he’s too scared to do anything more. But he is only fourteen, and eventually he abandons everything but the selfish hand around his cock. He’s impatient and has little to no finesse, but Stiles could give a shit about finesse. He’s about to come…

That is until somebody says, “Holy fucking hell.”

For a second, Stiles doesn’t make sense of the voice. His brain, blissed out and two seconds away from orgasm, doesn’t want to let him. This is probably his subconscious’ desperate attempt to prevent the frayed strands of his psyche from completely unraveling. Unfortunately, Stiles is too damned inquisitive even for his own mind’s sake. He opens his eyes, and everything. just. stops.

“Peter?” 

The man is standing in the doorway to Stiles’ bedroom. Just standing there, hand still numbly holding the doorknob. He looks completely demoralized. “Nothing good will ever happen to me,” he states plainly. “Why do I expect anything but this in my life?” He sniffs, face wrinkling. “Is that patchouli?”

“Jeeesusfuckingchrist Get Out!” Stiles yanks the edges of the blanket over himself, scrambling to cover up. He gets tangled in them and falls onto the floor in a heap. It’s a heap that still covers the most important bits, not that it matters; Peter’s already seen _everything_. Oh god. Peter has seen him naked. Peter has seen his dick. Peter has seen his hand, on his dick. Stiles cannot see a way out of this. He is going to have to commit suicide. Either that, or murder Peter. Suicide will probably be easier though.

Peter speaks, effectively cutting off Stiles’ homicidal train of thought. “Well. This is obviously the most mortifying moment of my life.”

“ _Your_ life?!” Stiles seethes. “How about mine? Didn’t you ever learn how to knock?”

The edges of Peter’s lips turn up. “I did knock, _sweetheart_. Now, if you’re done having fun, get dressed,” he commands. “Family meeting downstairs.” Stiles can only blink owlishly at him as Peter turns around and leaves as quickly as he came. Overwhelmed, he buries his face into the carpet with a groan.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

There have been very few Hale family meetings, ever. To date, there have been exactly zero since Stiles has arrived. So this is a bit of a novelty. Stiles and Cora sit on the den’s loveseat together, everyone else dispersed throughout the room on one piece of furniture or another. Talia has just told them all that she has cancer. She’s going to get treated, and then she’ll get better (Peter and Laura have delivered that bit).

Stiles is confused because he really was under the impression that werewolves didn’t get things like cancer. But Laura just tells him that this is a severe case; any human would be dead from it by now. If this is meant to comfort him, Stiles thinks that Laura might want to work on that. Most of all, he feels scared that he’ll lose the only mom he has. 

Looking to Derek and Cora’s faces, Stiles can tell that neither of them knew that this news was coming. They both look devastated in their own way. Derek is wooden, all emotion removed from his face; while Cora is fuming, alternating between grief and fury. “How could you not tell us this sooner?” she half yells at her mother, voice breaking on the end. “You’re dying?!”

Talia purses her lips. “Hardly. And I waited to tell you because, as you know, there have been some serious goings on in the county that your uncle and sister and I have had to deal with.” She pauses, looking at them all. “That’s the other reason for this meeting. We need to talk about the trespassers.”

Derek looks up, engaging the room for the first time. “You mean the strays that’ve been traveling through?”

“They weren’t strays.” This from Laura, who’s looking tense now. “We think packs from out of the area are scouting the territory.”

“Scouting?” Cora sounds confused as she wipes her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been trying to keep her illness quiet,” Peter says. “But they’re more like vultures than wolves. They can smell weakness. We think they’ll come to stake a claim if they see an opening.” By ‘opening’ he means ‘death’, but he doesn’t say that.

Stiles hasn’t met Peter’s eyes once since he came down from his room, but now at the other man’s words, he looks up. “You think they’re going to try to take over?” he asks, by now familiar with werewolf hierarchies, and how werewolves love to go around breaking them. He just always thought it was other werewolves who did that. Werewolves who lived far, far away from Beacon County. “Are they going to kill her?” he asks. It’s impulsive as usual, and it makes Cora smack him and Talia laugh.

Derek growls at Stiles for even saying it. “No,” he says pissily. He looks at his mother. “Mom, what are we going to do?” He’s never heard of another pack encroaching on their territory. As far as he knows it hasn’t ever happened.

“We’ll keep tabs on them. Send them warnings,” Laura says.

“And if any of them are stupid enough to challenge, we’ll rip them to shreds,” Peter adds. Stiles is strangely comforted by this, as he knows from personal experience that Peter is quite capable of ripping people to shreds. 

“No. We are not animals,” Talia reprimands. “We don’t fight to the death for power. Not anymore.” Peter snorts, and Talia shoots him a glare. The two seem to have a silent, feuding second of non-verbal communication. “We choose not to,” Talia amends pointedly. “There are more civilized paths to go about retaining power.” She glances over to where Stiles is sharing the loveseat with Cora. “Paths that, if taken, can save lives. That is if stubborn werewolves aren’t too hard-headed to take them.” 

“There are varying interpretations on what things are ‘civilized’ and what are not,” Peter grumbles at his sister. “Some might say that a little honest bloodshed is preferable to the sacrificial lamb.”

Stiles frowns, feeling totally lost. Next to him, Cora looks puzzled as well, but Derek and Laura seem to understand the conversation perfectly. Derek looks interested and Laura looks… uncomfortable. Stiles likes to know all the juicy details about anything ever, so he brings it all to a halt, doing karate kid hand motions in the air—wax-on/wax-off style. “Wait what?” he gesticulates. “Bloodshed and sacrifices? Is there some huge werewolf battle approaching? Because as the only human in the room, I’d like to have advance warning so as to thoroughly arm myself.” Preferably with flamethrowers, he thinks. Flamethrowers and grenades.

Talia rolls her eyes. “No Stiles. We are not having a war.” She side-eyes Peter ruefully. “Or bloodshed of any kind.”

“We’ll see,” he tells her darkly, before turning and leaving the room. Mysteriously, Derek follows soon after him, and apparently that’s the end of the meeting because Cora stomps up to her room in tears, Talia calling after her. And like the piddly human step-child that he is, Stiles is left sitting there alone.

He doesn’t want to let first impressions cloud his judgment too much, but Stiles really thinks that Hale family meetings seem like a generally bad idea. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--


	4. Chapter 4

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles wakes up in pain. 

It’s one of those times where he’s pulled from sleep very suddenly, almost as if someone has been shaking his shoulder or speaking in his ear. Except that when he opens his eyes, the room is empty. It’s just him alone in his bed, and it’s dark. He has a brief moment of confusion where he forgets what time of day it is or when he last went to sleep, but that fades and just as another flash of pain comes he remembers that it’s Friday; he’s been napping after school to get rid of a somewhat vicious headache.

Well, the headache’s gone at least. In its place is a whole host of other symptoms that are so poignant that Stiles cannot do anything other than assume that THIS IS IT. He is changing. He flings the covers back off of himself, cataloging his body as he sits up. Everything still seems human enough: skin, teeth, hair. But Stiles can feel a roiling inside, like a storm building just under his skin, and he knows that it won’t stay put. Somehow he just knows. 

Dull, aching pain shoots through what feels like the marrow of his bones, and Stiles gives a surprised groan. _Oh, that does not feel good_. Standing shakily, he can tell that he’s sweating. He strips his shirt off, rolls his shoulders to feel how the sinews move strangely underneath. It feels like… it feels like his body suddenly can’t stand the way that it is assembled. Formations of muscle and skin that have served well enough for years suddenly feel _wrong_ , and Stiles doesn’t know what to do to fix it. He feels frightened. This isn’t at all what he’d expected. _Shit_ , he thinks. What if this isn’t normal? What if something’s going wrong with his first shift? Terrified of this, he heads straight out the door and barrels down the hall to Derek’s room. He’s half convinced he’s going to die. 

But Derek isn’t there. Stiles freaks out a little. The one person whom he’d wanted with him on this day and he’s not here? He glances at the hall clock and sees that it says 8:00 pm. Stiles blinks, realizing he’s been asleep for hours. The house seems mostly dark upstairs, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much (its occupants have better-than-average night vision). Derek’s not in his room and Stiles tries not to hyperventilate about that. “Think,” he says aloud, and his voice sounds gravelly even to him. “Where would Derek be at eight o’clock on a Friday night?” There’s a pause, and then Stiles groan internally, or maybe his wolf does because his body is still roiling as he answers his own question: “At Kate’s,” he mutters despondently. Stiles has been supplanted.

He has about ten seconds to brood on that before another sensation hits him: something moving under his skin. Not imagined. Not a dream. Something. actually. moves. Stiles gives a yip where he stands, pressing his own fingers desperately against the curve of his rib cage-where he most definitely saw/felt something shift. He pants in fear. Aren’t claws supposed to come first?! This is too much. Frantically, he goes to Talia’s bedroom door. She’s not there. Laura’s not upstairs either. Stiles gulps, his gums itching. Maybe Cora?

But no. She’s not there either. By now Stiles could give two fucks about finding Derek. He just needs to find _someone_. He can’t be alone. Not for this. He takes the stairs down, holding tightly to the rail because right now he really feels like he could fall down. Most of the downstairs is empty as well. Stiles moves through the front hall, the kitchen and dining room. He passes the office and the formal living room. For a moment, Stiles wonders where the hell all of this empty house luck was years ago when he was trying to telephone Scott. 

It isn’t until he gets to the den at the back of the house that he sees Peter. He’s sitting in an armchair by the window. He’s in his pajamas, reading some book. It means nothing to Stiles that there is no lamp turned on. The moon is obviously light enough for Peter to read by. And… the moon. 

Stiles’ eyes lock onto it where it looms outside the window. It’s full—the very thing that they always said would call to him one day. But it feels less like a call and more like a command. Stiles is transfixed, drawn like some stupid bug to a porchlight. He cannot not look at the moon. He stares and stares, the jumpy feeling under his skin growing stronger. He’s completely forgotten about Peter. And it’s very ridiculous… but he feels like he can see a piece of his soul for the first time. It’s right there: round, and white. And luminous.

Somewhere, Stiles can swear he hears a howl. 

“Stiles?” Peter has set his book aside, and—oh hey! Look at that—he’s right there next to Stiles, holding out a hand as if he’ll touch him. “Stiles,” he says, “Are you okay?”

Stiles gapes, stupid for a moment. He’s changing. He’s finally changing. And Peter’s the only one here? _Oh, nonono_. This is so not acceptable in Stiles’ book. “No!” he finally manages to snap, feeling exposed. “I’m—” He remembers that he has no shirt on, and it’s just one layer more naked than he ever wants to be in front of Peter. Ever since Peter caught him jerking off that one time, nakedness has been kind of a big deal. If he lets him witness this, he’ll be completely bared (and he doesn’t just mean in the physical, no-clothes sense). “I’m not alright,” Stiles hisses, losing some of the venom on the end of it because he’s gasping again. The pieces inside him are fighting harder now. They’re starting to _twist_. “Ughshiiit.” Peter looks at Stiles, concern playing out on his features. It is obvious that he knows what is happening to the kid. He looks almost… sympathetic? No, Stiles thinks. That cannot be it. Gritting his—momentarily—still human teeth, he asks Peter, “Where’s Derek?”

“I don’t know.” Peter puts his hands on him, pulls him close and holds him still. He smells so good and Stiles tries to turn his nose away. “How long has this been going on?” Peter asks. His worry isn’t endearing so much as bizarre to Stiles. 

“Ugh. Since I woke up,” he groans. “Five, ten minutes?” Stiles blinks at him, and he can tell from the way that Peter is looking at him, that something has changed. “What?! he asks. “What is it? My eyes? Ohgodthey’reyellowaren’tthey?” Stiles’ inner ten-year-old says _cool!_ This is the stuff he used to make stories of. His inner fourteen year old just whimpers.

Peter turns to glance anxiously out of the window. It’s been so long since the full moon was a real issue for him. He’s completely forgotten that Stiles is overdue for the change. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “God Talia. Why tonight?” He venomously thinks that maybe she purposefully scheduled the chemo so that he’d be stuck with this burden. She’s always needled him to get closer to Stiles. 

“Where is she?” Stiles wants her here. She’s been his only parent since he was ten. “Peter?”

Peter clenches his eyes shut, then deigns to look at the kid whose shoulders he’s holding. “She’s at the hospital Stiles. Remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Shit. Stiles forgot. Talia’s been getting treatments for a while now. A sick, grouchy alpha has slowly become part of their pack life and he knows from experience that she’ll be gone for at least a couple of days. But he doesn’t have that long. “Laura?” he asks hopefully.

Peter looks annoyed. “She’s out handling pack business. There’ve been other packs trespassing. You know that.” Sure. Stiles also knows that he’s not going to be able to wait this out for any of the family that he _wishes_ was here. He’s stuck with Peter, just Peter, and that is not okay. Pulling away from the man’s grasp, he manages to gather himself enough to turn around and take a few steps. “Stiles, wait. You shouldn’t be alone for this.”

“I’m just…” Stiles will just go to his room. He’ll lie down and this will be over before he knows it. He shirks Peter away. He doesn’t want him here for this. “I…” He’s only halfway back across the family room when he collapses. An animal noise of pain escapes him, low and terrible. When he finally manages to look, vision gone yellow, he sees his nails grown to claws and digging in the carpet. “Oh my god,” he moans. “Peter: it’s going to kill me!” It’s going to claw its way out, whether he wants it to or not. He can feel it in there—in him—gnashing its teeth. For the first time, Stiles realizes why Derek talks about his wolf like it’s another person. Whatever it is that’s fighting to get out from Stiles’ skin, it is not him. “Ah… ahhgrh!” Whatever Stiles was planning on saying next isn’t voiced. He’s freaking out as his gums ache and pinch, teeth pushing through until they’re bigger, sharper. And _holy shit_ he has fangs. “Danny said, Danny said,” Stiles pants, surprised when he feels Peter grabbing him again. 

He’s pulling him up off of the carpet, helping him to kneel in a sort of crouched position. “Like this,” he says, holding him still. “You’ve seen me shift, right?” He waits for the boy’s nod. “It’ll come easier like this.” He spares a glance to Stiles’ pants. “You should be naked.”

“Fuck that!” Stiles doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Peter huffs a laugh behind him. No way is Stiles taking off his pants. “Danny said,” Stiles nearly whines it again. “He said it wouldn’t hurt. He said—ah!—good pain.” 

Peter’s fingers tighten on his biceps, keeping him from falling forward again. “Danny’s a born wolf. He’s been shifting since he was a toddler.” He almost sounds sorry as he tells Stiles, “We’re different. Our bodies aren’t prepared for the first time. …It’s going to hurt you. A lot.”

A high, keening sound comes from the back of Stiles’ throat, and it is not human. “You’re telling me this _NOW_?” He thinks that this is just utter confirmation that Peter absolutely sucks. “How bad?” he asks.

“Don’t fight it,” is all Peter can manage for him. There really is no other advice, and it’s one piece more than he had the first time he shifted. “Let it roll over you. If you don’t, if you get scared and try to fight it off, it will be so much worse.”

Stiles chokes on a cry. He is terrified. He is hurt that Derek isn’t here. He is angry that Talia didn’t tell him more. He knows that if he gets through this, he will _murder_ Peter …He wonders how the hell he’s going to get through this.

He feels the first bone break.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles’ biggest disappointment of all? That his wolf’s coat isn’t black. 

…Okay so maybe that’s not the worst thing. He really _was_ crushed that Derek wasn’t there with him when it happened. And the pain thing. Yeah the pain thing was pretty bad.

But _tawny_ , really? Stiles thinks that just the word tawny is stupid. All of the Hales have black wolves. On the full moon, they blur together through the forest like a single shadow. And now Stiles will stand out when he runs with them. Just like Peter does.

Stiles shuns Peter’s company the second that it’s over, of course. The memory of that night is a blur in his mind. Peter had held him still and helped him ride out the first, agonizing waves of pain, whispering words of comfort that Stiles can’t remember. And then when his body had rearranged itself, he’d taken him to the grass out back. Stiles remembers watching Peter undress and change into his wolf form, how he’d nudged him with his snout to get up and run. The run through the woods itself is much more of a blur, more a cacophony of sounds, smells, and instincts than anything else. 

And finally, when they’d come home and Peter was able to shift back but Stiles couldn’t figure out how, he’d laid behind Stiles and petted his fur until his stressed panting died away and he slept. That night was terrifying, confusing, and exhilarating to Stiles all at once. And _Peter_ of all people, Peter getting him through it? That’s the kicker. The guy has gone from being the number one villain in Stiles’ life, to being the number one villain/reluctant werewolf mentor in his life. It is weird. And since he doesn’t exactly know how to handle that—he _is_ only fourteen, after all—he avoids being around Peter at all costs. He spends his time with Danny and Derek and doesn’t spare a thought to how Peter might view this, because as far as Stiles knows, Peter doesn’t give a flying fuck what he does with his time. As far as Stiles knows, Peter only helped him in the first place because Talia was out killing her cancer, Laura was out killing other wolves, and Derek was out being stupid with Kate. Stiles has always gotten the creeps from Peter. He still does.

His wolf sure doesn’t though. It’s strange. When they’re in the same room together now, he feels… things. His wolf—a new occupant in his body—seems to actually _like_ Peter being there. It tells Stiles that Peter is a good person to be around, that he means safety and pack and… something else that Stiles can’t yet tease out. Stiles feels like his wolf might be nuts. He considers that having an inner-wolf is a little bit like having a conjoined twin with very different life goals. Or like having Schizophrenia. Yeah, maybe that.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles decides that he’ll confront Derek about his whole not-being-receptive-to-Stiles’-advances thing. He’s made it pretty clear by now, and yet _still_ Derek hasn’t made a move on him. Derek doesn’t want to renovate the shed with him, let alone be intimate with him. And seriously? Stiles is fifteen and borderline desperate for someone to do _something_ to him. So he figures that he’ll give it a whirl and finally tell Derek how he feels. Verbally. A Thursday afternoon seems like as good a time as any other to do it. 

Stiles is with Derek in his room. That in and of itself is pretty nice. Derek really likes his privacy and only lets Stiles in when he’s in a particularly good mood. So Stiles figures he’s off to a good start with his typically-grumpy step brother today—the day that he plans on telling him that he’s totally gone for him and wants to do _all of the things_ on his naked body.

…Okay so maybe Stiles won’t put it exactly like that. He can’t chance scaring Derek away, after all.

Derek is spread out on his bed with whatever sort of homework college kids get. Whatever it is involves a _lot_ of reading. There’s music playing lowly from Derek’s jerk off stereo, and Stiles has commandeered the supersized bean bag chair to throw his head back and listen to it. It almost calms his nerves of what he’s about to do. Almost.

“Derek?”

“Hmm. What?”

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes from where he’s lounging, not yet. “Can we talk about something?”

A distracted chuckle comes from Derek’s general direction. “Even if we couldn’t, you’d find a way.”

Supposing that’s a version of ‘yes’, Stiles asks, “Do you think of me as a brother?” _SayNoSayNoSayNo_.

“…Um, no. Not really. I mean I like you Stiles you know that. I just… I don’t get that related feeling like I do with Peter. I was too old when you came here, you know?”

“No! I mean, No: I know!” Stiles is way excited that Derek doesn’t think of him that way. That would essentially bring what he’s about to do to a giant, screeching halt. “I love you too but I definitely feel like, you know, friends. Not brothers.”

“Mhmm.” Derek is distracted again by his reading.

“Sooo, if I were to say that I liked you—like, really liked you—you wouldn’t be grossed out or anything?” Stiles peeks out of one eye to see if Derek has caught his meaning. He hasn’t. Stiles sits up with a huff. “Derek? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah…” he keeps reading. “You like me. I like you. So much like. Stiles I’ve got to study though.” 

Okay, that does it. If Stiles can be brave then the least Derek can do is notice. Getting to his feet, Stiles figures he’ll have to be more direct about this. Maybe not _I want to do all the things on your naked body_ direct, but direct-er. He goes over and climbs up on Derek’s bed. “I’m not just talking about like.”

“Hey—Stiles!” Derek scowls. “You’re messing up my system!” His arms reach out to try and shuffle the books and papers back into some sort of order. When Stiles doesn’t leave or apologize, Derek gives him a grunt and begrudgingly pays full attention to him. “What?” he asks. “What is it?”

“Dude,” Stiles makes a face. “I am trying to tell you that I have a ginormous crush on you and you’re making it really difficult. Help me out here.”

Derek stills, books suddenly forgotten. “You… Ah, um… A crush? You have a cr—”

“A CRUSH, yes,” Stiles rushes. “I do. I have since I was ten.” He bites his lip, opting not to get explicit and say that: well, he hasn’t been _jerking off_ to the guy since he was ten. “I kind of, I don’t know, maybe love you,” he admits, confidence waning the longer that Derek looks at him with that blank, unimpressed expression. _Love_ sounds like such a sappy word, but Stiles can’t think of any middle ground terminology so he lets it stand. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long but…”

“But what?” Derek asks him this softly. “Stiles?” And for a second Stiles lets it lift his hopes up that this might end up going the way he’s imagined—that way being, of course, where Derek winds up immediately ridding him of his clothes and his virginity.

“But… I was afraid that you’d be grossed out. Or worse: you’d laugh at me.”

“Oh.” Derek isn’t doing either of those things. He is looking at Stiles as though he’s never seen him before. “I didn’t know you felt this way,” he says, reaching out to lay a tender hand against Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles is bursting with nerves, and being the stupid teenager that he is, he takes the hand-on-the-shoulder thing to mean complete and utter requited love on Derek’s part. Without thinking, he shoots forward and puts his mouth on Derek’s own. He’s so certain that passionate, love-declaring sex is in his immediate future that he fails to register Derek pushing against him. “Hey, hey. Stiles wait a second. Stop.”

Stiles opens his eyes, and the look on Derek’s face makes all of the happy butterflies in his stomach shrivel and die. Derek looks… confused. And maybe a little put-out. “I… thought you wanted to, too,” Stiles says. “I thought that, since now I’m a wolf that you’d, I don’t know. Want me.”

To his credit, Derek does at least look embarrassed. He pulls a little bit farther away. “No,” he breathes reluctantly. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I like you, just not like that.”

Stiles does nothing. He can think of nothing to say or do to make the awfulness of this moment go away. Derek isn’t interested in him after all, and Stiles knows that later, once he’s alone again, he’ll over-scrutinize every single, solitary aspect of himself—physical and otherwise—to figure out just what it is that’s always made Derek unable to want him. Averting his gaze to the bedspread so that he at least doesn’t have to watch Derek looking sorry for him anymore, he murmurs, “You like Kate like that.”

“I… yeah.” Derek obviously doesn’t know what else to say. 

Stiles nods a little, trying to not act like the immature child that Derek probably thinks he is. He is mortified on a whole new, previously unattained level. This is worse than when Finstock sent him home from tryouts. This is worse than when Peter walked in on him jerking it. It’s way worse. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Danny comes over after school more now than he used to. Stiles asks him if it’s because he’s a for real wolf now. Danny just gets quiet and says no, and Stiles has no idea what that means. The two of them are sitting together under the overhang of the deck that comes off the kitchen. They’d been studying in the basement, but had dragged their chairs out the sliding glass doors to watch the view: Derek and Kate are further out in the lawn, working on the big shed. Stiles is nearly growling and Danny is nearly salivating; Stiles because Kate keeps bending over in her skimpy tank top on purpose (and Derek keeps _looking_ ), and Danny because by now Derek has gotten sweaty and taken off his shirt. 

Stiles figures that he could take his shirt off, too. Maybe that would help keep Danny’s attention on their geometry homework. Of course, he’s not exactly as cut as Derek. That doesn’t seem to be something that comes naturally with his newfound werewolf powers. But it’s nearing sunset in October, and for the first time since he was ten, Stiles isn’t the weird one sitting around wearing a hoodie to keep warm. Wolves run hot, and now he understands why the Hales always chuckled at his human need for a second layer. 

“Geometry is the dumbest fucking thing I will ever have to learn,” Stiles mutters. _Other than the fact that Derek would apparently rather spend his time with Kate Argent’s boobs than me_ , he thinks prissily. He’s gotten halfway through one of the proofs that he’s supposed to be doing before he complains, “I mean: who cares what kind of triangle it is?”

“It’s isosceles.”

Stiles flails his hands desperately above his textbook. “I know that! Why do I have to explain it?!” He jabs a finger on the tenth statement of his proof: “Triangle AED is congruent to triangle BED. I know that, I just don’t know _why_.” He glances forlornly to the ‘reasons’ column. “Why do I need a reason? How does this help me in life? They’re just. fucking. congruent. They just are.” 

Danny looks up his eyebrows at him. “You’re on number twelve?... It’s the reflexive property.” Danny’s always been pretty okay at math. “Where are your notes from class?”

Yeah Stiles takes shitty notes and Danny knows this. Stiles starts leaning over. Aaand over. He wills himself to have the vertebra of a giraffe. “Can I just… take a peek—” 

Danny scoots his chair away and Stiles tips over a little bit. “Nope.”

 

Geometry takes a while but eventually Stiles convinces himself that he’s given his best effort. Danny’s already moved on to chemistry and since Stiles likes that a little better than math, he roots through his backpack to get out the corresponding textbook. By now Derek has moved up on top of the shed. He’s up there stapling roofing to the plywood as Kate straddles the peak of the roof and hands him shingles when he needs them. The two of them look so downright cozy up there that it makes Stiles’ wolf rumble deep in his throat. Danny hears it and chuckles, and of course Stiles is embarrassed and feels the need to defend with a profound, “What? Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m just saying. The way you’re staring at him, you might bite him any second.”

Stiles grunts, “That’s stupid. Why would I do that?” He likes Derek. He wouldn’t bite— _Oh_ … but his wolf thinks it’s a pretty good idea. The wolf does a happy spin at the thought of sinking its teeth into Derek. Aaand Stiles is confused. “Why would I do that?” he asks again, though now with a truly inquisitive tone.

“Bite him?” Danny snorts. “To mark your territory. To claim him.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s a thing?” Dots suddenly connect in his head and for the first time he thinks of the marks that he’s seen on some pack members—the faint, half-moon scars on shoulders and necks. For all of his inquisitiveness, Stiles had never thought to question why some wolves had them and others did not. Living with the Hales for five years has taught him a lot. The change has taught him even more. But he still hasn’t figured all the finer points out yet. Some things still surprise him. “Danny?” he prompts.

“I was just joking Stiles,” he excuses. “I mean yeah, it’s a thing. But it’s serious. You don’t just bite your high school crush.”

“He is not my—!” Stiles begins loudly, though he is mindful to check his volume when, four hundred meters away, Derek briefly looks their way. “He’s not my crush,” he finishes in a whisper. Danny gets quiet and goes back to his chemistry worksheet. Stiles copies him. He fidgets. He twiddles his pencil. He glances up at Danny, then down. Up then down again. Tapping his foot gets him through another ten seconds. Finally, he can’t help it. He bursts, “So werewolves biting each other is a thing, huh? For like, love? Sex? Is it a sex thing? Because that’s kind of hot. I mean, mostly gross cause—OUCH—but hot too.”

Danny stares. “Yeah. Right.”

“Do you think I could bite Derek? Does it actually _do_ anything? Other than hurt? I mean because my wolf kind of wants to bite him. Or maybe that’s inappropriate. Would that be inappropriate?” 

“Stiles.” Danny shuts his textbook. “You’re doing the rambling thing.” Stiles clamps his lips shut tightly in a display of self-control, and Danny sighs. “Yes. It would be inappropriate. Hasn’t anyone ever given you the werewolf sex talk?” 

Stiles gapes. “No!” he says, outraged. “I didn’t know there was a _werewolf_ sex talk!” He feels cheated. Talia had just given him the regular sex talk! Stiles stares in fascination at his friend. “Tell me everything.” 

Danny does. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

That June, the Hale family takes a trip to the coastal town of Elk, California. They drive caravan-style instead of taking the train. This way, Laura explains, they only pass through three other counties. And as Talia tells it, negotiating even that much intercounty travel for them all has been a logistical nightmare. It is the first family vacation that the Hales have managed since before they had Stiles. The unspoken fact of the matter is that they’re doing this because of Talia’s health.

The drive is hardly bearable. Extended family and close friends have been invited on the trip and every vehicle that they take is crowded. Stiles is assigned to the backseat of Laura’s van, sandwiched between Cora and cousin Malia—he suspects to prevent any spats between the two. By the time they arrive at the rented beach house, the open, salty air is a welcome relief. Stiles gets a quarter of the sleeping space in Derek’s room, two other male cousins rounding their numbers out.

Other than that, the beach house is a huge, jumbled mess of people, all acclimating to being forced to live together in a new place. Luggage gets mixed up and fought over, grocery bags litter the rental’s kitchen counters, the younger kids run around with minimal supervision, and claims are instantly staked on the bathrooms. Stiles thinks that if this is pack life, he loves it. 

The house they’re staying at is prime, beachfront property. When you walk out of the back sliding doors, your toes hit the sand in a matter of seconds. Everyone scrambles to find their own way to enjoy this rare chance at a vacation. Talia favors sitting with her aunt in the solarium off the kitchen, while Peter and Derek start a morning ritual of drinking their coffee on the deck and watching the sun rise. Stiles doesn’t even need a spot or a ritual or any piece of this trip to make his. He’s just pleased as punch to _be there_. For the first time in his life, Stiles gets to see the ocean. If he’d stayed human, he thinks, he probably never would have. Permits for this kind of travel are very hard for humans to come by, and so he decides that is another perk of being were. The waters of the Pacific Ocean are endless, the sheer scope of it breathtaking. Stiles is eager to swim in it and hopes that he’ll be included when the older kids go out later that night. There are whispered plans for bonfires and music (and some smuggled fireworks and beer) later on.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The bonfires become a thing. The first one is a blast. The teenagers all shift after midnight and run their wolves to exhaustion through the sand. High tide is the only thing that forces the revelries to a close. Another fire happens, and another. The fourth bonfire finds Stiles sulking though, and half-drunk. 

The beaches of Mendocino county are rugged. Rock formations that jut out of everywhere create the perfect, sandy alcoves for the teenagers to have their parties. Tonight there’s maybe twenty of them. There’s food and music and the faint smell of marijuana on the salt air. Stiles has fallen back from the rest of the group, his mood soured from the scenery and the earlier events of the day. The nearest bonfire, many meters away, doesn’t really reach the sand around him. A cheap plastic chair has been eschewed for the blanket underneath his butt, and a craggy outcropping of rock blocks him from view of the larger party. Stiles doesn’t mind. Right now he likes it that way. It means he doesn’t have to watch everyone else having fun. It means he doesn’t have to watch Derek and Kate—who somehow wormed her way into this trip—being all mushy together by the fire.

“Stupid,” he mumbles, somewhat drunkenly and at nobody in particular. He’s barefoot, and his toes dig petulantly into the cold nighttime sand. In his hand is a bottle of cheap rum, and he lifts it to take another dreadful sip. Derek had promised to teach him how to surf, but of course he’d bailed in favor of his _special friend_. Stiles refuses to use the word ‘girlfriend’. Derek hasn’t used it yet and so neither will he. Whatever you called her, Derek had forgotten about Stiles for Kate, and Stiles had been left sunburnt on the beach, sitting around like a moron all afternoon thinking that surfing was still going to happen. 

“Stupid,” he says again, and maybe this time it’s more directed toward himself. He certainly feels it. He’s embarrassed that he’s such a pining nerd. Apparently, changing into a wolf hasn’t cured him of that. Stiles thinks that he needs to get the hell over Derek. Derek isn’t such a great werewolf. Sure, he is really, really good looking. He’s also kind, and can be really helpful and brotherly at times. He’s dark and brooding (but only in a totally endearing way), hilariously sarcastic, and dresses really well and has a motorcycle and is good at building stuff… but he’s also full of himself. And stupid. Really stupid. He has to be, to not realize how Kate is just the poor man’s Stiles.

All of Derek’s attributes aside, Stiles begins going through his head to contemplate suitable replacements for his affections. In his mind’s eye he sweeps over images of the kids in his class. There’s Erica, whom Stiles finds to be attractive but also a little bit terrifying. There’s Allison and Boyd and—ew—Danny. Not that they’re unattractive people but Stiles just _doesn’t_. Not like that. Isaac’s nice but he doesn’t excite Stiles, not like Derek does. Stiles sighs, wracking his brain for other possibilities. Jackson’s kind of hot, but his personality gets entirely in the way… hmm, Katie, Garrett, Kenneth, James, Lindsay… Peter. “Peter?” Stiles jerks backwards, not having expected that name to pop up in the runnings. Though he _is_ standing _right_ there. Stiles makes a horrified face. “What are you doing out here?” He will totally get the blame from the other kids if Peter reports them to Talia.

“Going for a walk,” Peter tells him, some kind of amusement to his voice. 

“A walk?”

“Yes. It’s what us old folk do to entertain ourselves. Not as exciting as your,” he sniffs the air, “proclivities.” He smirks at Stiles, obviously able to smell the ganja. “I see you’ve decided to partake,” he makes a nod down at the bottle of rum. 

“Yeah?” Stiles feels way too stupid right now to deal with someone as sharp as Peter. He still has a hard time being alone around the guy, since his first shift. “So what if I am? You going to tell mom?” 

If Peter notices the familial term, he doesn’t say anything. “I’m not going to tell her,” he says, tone making it clear that he thinks Stiles is a perfectly ridiculous specimen of a teenager for getting sloshed on the beach and then begging not to be told on. Peter sinks down and obliges himself to a corner of Stiles’ blanket. Stiles makes a cluck of protest in his mouth and agitatedly scoots a few inches away. Either Peter doesn’t notice this reaction or he doesn’t care. He reaches out to pluck the bottle from Stiles’ hands, taking his own long draw from it.

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “That’s mine!”

Peter’s face is scrunched up in a grimace. “That,” he says disdainfully, “is the cheapest rum I have ever tasted.” The cords of his throat work, trying vainly to swallow the taste away. He can tell that someone has crudely laced the liquor with wolfsbane. “You know in Jamaica, they have rum so pure, it tastes like sweet water.”

Stiles snorts. Leave it to Peter to know such things. He highly doubts that the man has _actually_ travelled internationally. “Whatever,” he mumbles, trying to steal the bottle back. Peter teasingly pulls it out of his reach a few times, but finally lets him have it again. Stiles grumbles, not liking that Peter is here at all. His wolf, however, is pretty pleased. The animal inside of him is lying down, at ease now that Peter is nearby. Stiles clenches his eyes shut, feeling completely out-of-tune with his wolf. Isn’t the thing supposed to be a part of him? How can it be such a bad judge of character? “You know I really don’t want any company right now,” Stiles murmurs. He knows that the ocean breeze doesn’t sweep the quiet words away from Peter’s ears. “Especially from you.”

“Why are you out here getting drunk, alone?” 

“Why are you out here going for walks?” Stiles returns, though it is dumb and makes him cringe a little more into his next sip of rum. “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”

“Bothering you,” Peter muses. He folds his knees and lets his head thunk back against the rock. “It seems to be a skill I have.”

“You don’t say.”

“I never intended to be so good at it.”

“Hmm.” There is a silence between them. Stiles sits there and Peter watches him and it’s annoying but it isn’t awkward. In fact it’s rather resigned. Stiles is too drunk to get up and storm away from Peter, and Peter is… well he doesn’t know what Peter is but that’s sort of the point. The guy is weird. “And he smells like cinnamon,” Stiles murmurs testily into the rum, forgetting that Peter can hear.

“Excuse me?”

Surprised, Stiles’ eyes shoot sidelong to the werewolf at his side. “Whaat? I don’t know.” Did he say that last bit out loud? He digs his toes further into the sand. “You want some rum?”

“You said, ‘and he smells like—’”

“—I know what I said,” Stiles barks. “I’m the one who said it.” He rolls his eyes.

“Who?” Peter asks. And _god_ , the guy just doesn’t give up, does he?

“You!” Stiles has about had it with this. “Christ. You smell like cinnamon, okay?” He came out here behind his little rock to get hammered and fall asleep on the beach, not be interrogated by his step-uncle once removed. “You always have. Since I first met you."

Peter is quiet for a moment. “Since before you were a wolf?”

Stiles nods. “Yes. Congratulations. You smell like the freaking Cinnabon store at the mall. Scrum-diddly-umtiousss.” He pulls out the ‘s’ on the end of the word because—hello—he’s drunk. “You should really pick a new signature scent; it’s getting old.”

“I don’t… wear cologne.”

“I—oh.”

Peter looks at Stiles. Really _looks_ at him. The boy—a young man now—has changed so much since he first came to them. He’s got a shorn head of hair now. He’s shot up over a foot and developed a semi-subdued hyperactive nature along with a nosy attitude. And the way that he looks at the world is a little bit less optimistic. Part of it is from heartbreak, Peter knows. The trauma of being torn away from everything so suddenly. And part of it is the wolf now having taken up residence in the kid’s body. But part of it is also purely Stiles; how he would have grown up despite anything or anyone else. Peter isn’t so dishonest with himself that he can ignore his own wolf’s attention to it. …And Stiles can scent him, too? That’s interesting news. It somehow makes what Derek’s always told Peter and Talia so much more real. In the end, all he says is, “You smell like gardenias to me. You always have.”

While Stiles does scrunch his nose at this statement, he doesn’t question Peter’s honesty. Maybe it’s the fact that it _had to be flowers_ that he takes issue with. Stiles continues to drink and Peter wonders if he should have mentioned the smell thing after all. As a man who generally dislikes giving anything personal away, he kind of regrets it. Maybe he regrets coming out here at all. He so doesn’t need to sit by and watch a fifteen year old drink himself into a stupor. It’s not like Peter doesn’t know whom Stiles is drowning his sorrows for (he does). And it’s actually quite pathetic and Peter would rather be asleep in his own damned bed. Maybe he is an old man.

But now that he’s here he cannot simply leave Stiles. That would be… What? Wrong? Irresponsible? Peter doesn’t know. It’s not like he usually has a problem with either of those things. But with Stiles it’s different. Peter’s wolf growls at him every time he thinks about getting up and leaving Stiles to sleep it off on the beach. He just knows that he can’t abandon the kid. So he sits there and listens to whatever rambles the boy can come up with before the inevitable happens and he passes out. Peter can carry him back up to the house easily when that does eventually occur. He just has to wait for it.

The more he drinks the more Stiles talks about Derek; how pretty he is, how cool, how much Stiles wants to kiss him. He talks about how mean Derek can be without realizing it, how he’d abandoned their afternoon of surfing, and how stupid he is for liking Kate instead of him. Peter could practically vomit at the lovesick litanies. But then Stiles starts talking about _him_ and apparently he’s _very_ drunk, because he’s telling Peter about how much he dislikes him, how creepy he thinks he is, how he smells like cinnamon and how Stiles’ inner wolf really likes him for some reason. How even though Peter has seen him naked now and helped him through some stuff, it doesn’t mean he gets to be anything special and Stiles is going to make sure his wolf sees that too. 

And Peter never responds. Stiles doesn’t need him to, and Peter doesn’t need Stiles connecting all of the dots of why their wolves act the way they do. The kid deserves better. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The next morning after breakfast, after Peter and Derek come back from their usual morning coffee on the deck, Derek is mysteriously prompt in taking Stiles to the beach for surfing lessons. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has some dubcon moments that might be triggering for some readers.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

They return to Beacon Hills. Life continues on as normal, only Talia spends more and more time away. Stiles and Cora prepare to begin their junior year, Derek takes college courses and gets a job in town, and Laura looks to Peter for direction. It’s a concerning pattern that everyone in the household notices.

Stiles waits until there’s an opening to talk to his alpha. Funny: since he’s gone through the change, he can’t help but to think like all the others; that Talia is his alpha. It doesn’t feel like a bad thing. It feels like a safe thing. A lot like having a mom… but with more teeth.

He knocks on the office door. Everyone else is out back playing with the newly-built fire pit, and that is precisely why Stiles has chosen now to start this conversation. “Talia?” he asks lightly, knowing that she can hear him through the walls. “Can I come in?” 

The gentle scratching of her writing stops, and Stiles hears her yawn from the other side of the door. “Sure. Come on in honey.”

Stiles goes in, shuts the door and sits himself down on the threadbare mission couch. “I want to talk about something,” he says straight off. He doesn’t want to waste Talia’s time.  
He knows things in the county have been difficult lately. It’s a burden that’s only been heaped upon that of her waning health. “It’s something about me. About wolves.”

Talia picks up her coffee cup, interest piqued. “Okay,” she says steadily. “I’m glad you came to me. What is it?”

Stiles bites his lip. He twiddles and fidgets, even though he’s been told a million times not to. It’s his nervous habit—he can’t help it. “Well… you know how Derek’s an alpha? How some people are alphas or betas?” He reconsiders and adds, “Or omegas?”

Talia nods. “Yes.” She figures she already knows where this is going.

“I uh, I was wondering if you knew which I am…” Stiles trails off at the end of his sentence, feeling dumb. This is probably something every born wolf and their mother knows. Talia will probably think he’s a moron for not figuring it out for himself. “I can’t exactly tell,” he explains quickly, gesturing at his own body. “I mean, I don’t have the eye thing.” Even in beta form, his eyes are still the same honey brown, he tells her. “—and is that normal by the way or should I, like, get it checked out?” 

Talia huffs a laugh, but it’s not derisive like Derek or Peter’s would be. “No, you’re fine Stiles.”

He shrugs. “Then…? What?”

“You just haven’t presented yet.”

“I’m,” Stiles wrinkles his brow. “But… I changed. I have my wolf.” He’s had it for almost two years now. Besides, he’s nearly sixteen so if he hasn’t ‘presented’ then when the hell will he? “What’s ‘presenting’?” he asks, having only half an idea.

“It’s when you take on the attributes of your second gender,” Talia explains. “It’s not just physiological. It’s psychological too—emotional. It’s just another dimension to who you are as a person, as a wolf.”

“Alpha or beta.” 

“Or omega. …Very occasionally. Rarely,” she corrects. There are no omega in the county right now, and she can’t tell the kid what his future _may_ be because of something that Derek once smelled. “Didn’t you have health class back when you were in middle school?” She asks. She swears she’d signed the permission slip.

Stiles blushes furiously. “Uh, yeah… I kind of skipped most of that.”

“Stiles!”

“It was too awkward!” Being the only non-wolf learning about some _very_ private wolf things had been enough for Stiles to lie and say that his adoptive mother hadn’t signed the forms. He looks guiltily at her. “I took a study period in the library instead. Butanyways it doesn’t matter: Danny filled me in on most stuff.”

“Oh. Wonderful.” His defense seems to be striking a weak chord with Talia. She frowns and acts the part of the exasperated parent. “Danny ‘filled you in’? Pfft. That is a frightening notion. So this is the first time anyone’s explained second genders to you?”

Stiles nods meekly. Yep, he’d known about them of course. But not… a lot. “So, I’m going to be an alpha right?” Talia only stares at him. “I mean I just figured, since alphas really tend to run in this family. I mean look at Peter—he’s adopted and even he’s one!”

“That’s… true. It doesn’t mean that you will be.”

Hmm, Stiles is pretty sure that he’ll be an alpha. He thinks he’d look cool with red eyes. Back when Danny gave him the pre-emptive sex talk, he didn’t really have much to say about omegas. But Talia says that’s rare so Stiles doesn’t bother to think about it. He thinks about Cora, and how she’s had the yellow eyes of a beta for over a year now. “When?” he asks again. “Cora’s the same age as me and she’s already presented. When will I?” And then as a second thought adds, “It won’t hurt like the change did, will it?”

Talia gives him a gentle smile, then tells him. “Girls always present earlier than boys. And no, it won’t hurt. This will all come in time Stiles. You’re a little later than most to present but that doesn’t mean anything. Peter didn’t present until he was eighteen you know. He didn’t even change until he was fifteen.”

Stiles’ eyes jump up at that, shocked. “What?” he gapes. Peter had been human that long? Until he was _fifteen_? Stiles didn’t even know that was possible. Suddenly, he recalls Derek once mentioning that Peter had come to live with them when Derek was just a young boy. He remembers how Derek had said something about how they’d ‘gotten to Peter late’, about Peter being locked up by the humans, and that the Hales had to be called to come and take him away. _Sent off like some diseased leper_ , Stiles thinks. He wants to ask more, some about Peter but mostly about himself, but Talia waves him off.

“Just let it go for now. Go out back and enjoy the fire with everyone else and stop worrying about these things.”

Stiles thinks about letting the issue go and just doing what Talia says. He stands, watching as she reaches wearily for the work that she’d abandoned upon his arrival. She looks tired, he thinks. The lines of her face have aged more in the past month than they have in years and her skin is pale and Stiles knows that that is unusual for any wolf let alone Talia and… and it stills him and his racing thoughts long enough to cautiously ask, “Talia?”

“Hm?”

“Your cancer,” he asks, hating even speaking about it. “It’s not getting better is it?” It’s a very direct question, he thinks. Peter would be proud of him. “Is it?”

… “Not exactly.” She grins, tight-lipped. “The doctors are doing everything that they can.”

Stiles shudders. Hearing his alpha talk like that is not the best feeling in the world. Considering the possible death of his mother is worse. “What happens if they stop knowing what to do?” he asks softly. He cannot imagine life on the preserve without Talia there to hold it all together. “What happens to us? What happens to me?”

She takes a deep breath and tells him, “If I die—”

“—I didn’t say that!” Stiles protests, hating that she did.

“ _If_ I die,” she repeats, “You will still live with us.” She reaches out over the desk to indicate that Stiles should step forward. He does, and she takes his hand to hold warmly in both of hers. “You’ll live with us for as long as you want to. The same as Laura. The same as Derek and Cora. This is your home. Don’t ever think that I’m the only one who wants you here.” Her words hurt so badly but they also warm Stiles’ heart. After six years, it’s nice to know that he still has people to love him. He might not have what he started out with, but he has pack. Talia is talking again, explaining to Stiles, “And as for the rest of it, I’m pretty sure that Peter will take over as alpha of Beacon County.”

Stiles stills, pulling his hand away. “Wait, what?” _Peter_? As alpha? “But I thought… Laura…” Laura is years older than Derek. She’s been following after Talia, learning from her, since Stiles first met her. He’d always assumed that the general would ascend to commander one day (in a very abstract way of course since he never expected to be in here having a conversation like this with Talia. Discussing her _death_ ). 

“Yes,” she tells him. “Peter has the next most dominant wolf to mine.” She chuckles. “Even though you might not particularly be able to tell it. I’m hoping he’ll accept the role. When the time comes.”

Stiles feels like his brain has done a somersault. “Peter as the alpha,” he says aloud, just to test the sound of it. It sounds crazy. Stiles thinks that Peter is mean and insular and selfish, and not at all suited to the role of pack alpha. It worries him that Talia disagrees.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Nature is cruel. That’s all Stiles can think when he wakes up one morning in the middle of the first week of school, and he finds that it’s finally happened: he’s presented. It’s not hard to figure out. He wakes up to his alarm at six fifteen, sweating profusely and trembling. Unlike when he went through the change, this time the tremor isn’t from pain; it’s from arousal. “Shiiit,” he gasps, yanking the blankets down to see his furious morning wood. Stiles feels sick and feverish. This is not normal arousal. He’s soaking wet between his legs, and a quick investigation reveals the source of the slick issue. Stiles stares at himself. This isn’t normal, period.

His erection, well… It’s just there, straining against the elastic of his sleep pants, and Stiles _aches_ inside. There isn’t any question about it. He has _got_ to take care of this. Stiles’ brain is fuzzy but what part of it does function correctly works on overdrive. His thoughts race, but do not settle anywhere but the arousal that pulses within him. He cannot _not_ hear the pounding of blood through his own veins as he reaches for his cock. He squeezes, gritting his teeth at the small measure of relief. Blindly, he flails out to his bedside table to grab the remote to his stereo while he still has the sense to protect his privacy. Metallica’s _Enter Sandman_ fills the room, and he gets into it. Stiles pulls and he pulls and he cries when he comes. No, not _cries out_ , he just cries. Like, sobs-into-his-pillow cries. And it’s not in amazement at some world-changing pleasure or anything like that. It’s in misery, because the ache inside of him has barely managed to subside. He doesn’t feel better and Stiles can tell it’ll be back. It’s not until he’s wiping the come from his stomach and the tears from his face that he realizes just what this burning is or what it means.

His head thunks back against the headboard. “Shit.”

 

Downstairs at breakfast, Stiles encounters a kitchen full of werewolves who all notice the instant he’s there.

“Oh my god!” Peter’s back is to Stiles but he’s the first to react. He hunches over the table he’s sitting at and puts his hand to his mouth. He’s dropped his fork onto his plate, a noise resembling a whimper leaving him. “What the fuck is that?”

Laura’s at the stove cooking sausages. She looks up in alarm just as Cora says, “It’s Stiles.”

Stiles freezes. He’s standing there in his socks and school clothes and he isn’t ready for all of this attention. “What?” he asks dumbly.

Cora giggles. “You smell,” she tells him, forking eggs into her mouth. She’s seated herself catty corner to Peter, who still hasn’t turned around.

Stiles scowls at her. “Shut up.” He’d done his best in the shower. But apparently Laura’s _herbal essences_ isn’t enough. He slumps over to the kitchen table and pulls out his own chair, shoving himself into it and grabbing for some of the bacon off of Cora’s plate. She doesn’t let him get it, and he eyeball’s Peter’s pancakes instead.

“Don’t. even.”

Stiles looks up at his face, seeing that Peter still has his eyes shut, palm over his mouth and nose, and a pained expression as if he’s smelt the worst thing in the world. “Oh come on,” Stiles gripes. Leave it to Peter to be an asshole about this. Because Peter has formed a hands-to-face gas mask and can’t defend himself, Stiles stabs a pancake anyway. Peter growls at him, but Stiles just snaps, “You snooze you lose.”

Talia walks into the kitchen then, stopping mid step as she’s fastening her necklace. “Oh my.” Her eyes shoot to Stiles, and that officially makes it every. single. person in the room who’s staring at him.

Stiles flicks his fork down, half a pancake hanging out of his mouth. “Oh maw gahd!” he exclaims brokenly. “Jus Stowpit!”

Laura is the first to recover. She turns her back on them and fixes her attention on shuffling sausages in the fry pan. Cora smirks into her plate but averts her eyes. Talia tries to compose herself and Peter doesn’t even bother. “Stiles,” he tells him seriously, “go back upstairs.” He apparently _cannot even_ , and he sounds a little bit nauseous and Stiles can’t help but to be angry at him for making this even more embarrassing than it has to be. “Go!”

“I’m not going anywhere.” _Dickwad_ , he wants to add. “So I’m omega, so what?” He huffs. “Just deal with it.”

Peter’s hands leave his face, and his eyes have bled red. “I’m not fucking kidding you brat. Go. Away.”

“That’s enough Peter.” Talia has stepped forward, apparently having gathered her wits enough to do something about this situation. She sits herself down at the kitchen table next to Cora, across from Stiles. “Will somebody get me some tea?” she says calmly. Laura hurries to do it, and they all sit there awkwardly. Talia looks at Stiles, “How did you sleep?” It’s conversational. Comically so.

“Um…” Stiles doesn’t have any idea what to say. He had no idea that everybody would act this weird once he presented. “Fine?” Then again, he had no idea that he’d be omega. He has a lot of questions that he’d like answered right now, only he can’t exactly ask them across the table at breakfast, and he doesn’t really want to ask any of the family members present. Where’s a sexually-informative stranger when you need one? Stiles thinks of Danny.

“That’s good,” Talia replies pleasantly. “I slept well too.”

Though Stiles is grateful for her attempt at normalcy, Peter isn’t. He snorts and dares to remove his hands, looking incredulously to his sister. “You mean you could sleep with the dulcet sounds of Metallica coming from his room?” Stiles blushes to the roots of his hair. “He’s in heat Talia!”

Laura turns the stove burners off and leaves the room without an excuse. Cora stays for the show.

Talia hasn’t been delivered her tea, and she primly orders Cora to make herself useful in retrieving it. Cup in hand, she finally addresses Peter’s outburst. “I’m sure you can remember the day that you presented,” she reminds him lightly. 

Peter grits his teeth, not in the mood. “He reeks of omega. What am I supposed to do?”

“Ignore it?” Talia suggests. “Stiles has no control over this. No more than you did anyway. When you URINATED ON THE MAILMAN.”

Cora busts out in laughter, and even Stiles can’t keep back a smile. “He did?”

Talia nods at him from across the table, while Peter rolls his eyes. “I was stuck in my other form. And anyways he was trespassing.”

Cora is choking on her laughter. “And you had to what? Mark your territory?” She looks at Stiles and they have a fairly rare sibling-like moment as they laugh together. “Mom, why don’t I remember this?!” 

“You were four dear.”

Peter stands, apparently not willing to face any more backlash from his alpha. “I’ll be in the office when you want to discuss this seriously,” he says. Stiles gets his hopes up for more pancakes but, spiteful as ever, Peter takes the plate with him.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

“Stiles?” The front door lingers open as Stiles takes a step back into the foyer. Talia has pulled him aside before he can start on the walk to school. Once the door is shut and Cora’s half way down the drive, she asks him, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he chirps anxiously. “I’m okay.” _If you count waking up, throbbing in a puddle of your own arousal okay_. Stiles swallows the lump in his throat. “I feel… well, you know…” He gestures up towards his eyes, which are still yellow. “I can’t get them to change back,” he mumbles.

“They will. Eventually. You don’t have to go to school today,” Talia offers gently. “I’ll let you stay home today, and for the rest of your heat. If you want to that is. The principal will understand.” 

“My heat?” Stiles asks. He wants to ask what that means, though he’s heard enough joking references to such things in the past to be able to infer meaning all on his own. He wants to ask how long this will last. He wants to know why the principal will understand. Does the principal know? _Ew_. He hopes not. “I can stay home?” Stiles asks tentatively. He really wouldn’t mind that. If anyone at school has the reaction that Peter did, Stiles will have to drop out, become a teenage hustler, and live rough on the mean streets of Beacon County. 

“Yes, you can stay home.” Talia reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles can barely stand it. “Stiles… if you have any questions, you know that you can come to me.” Maybe Stiles makes a face or something, because Talia seems to second guess herself. “Or Peter,” she amends. “If you want to discuss it with a man.”

Stiles makes an even bigger face. God. He cannot think of anything worse than having a sex talk with Peter Hale. “Why did he have to such a jerk about it?” he asks angrily.

Talia grimaces. “He… shouldn’t have behaved that way Stiles. It was unkind of him, and I’m sorry.”

This, of course, makes Stiles feel vindicated. Grumpy, but vindicated. “Good.” Peter is a jerk. Why would Talia even think about suggesting that Stiles talk to _him_ , of all people?

“But you should know that he also had reason to react the way that he did.” Talia says this like she’s doubting whether or not it’s a good idea to tell him. “He, um. Yes, he had a reason.”

Stiles has never heard her hesitate in her speech so badly. “What do you mean?”

She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment as if to draw resolve for something. “I mean, Stiles, that Peter is more affected by you because—”

“—Talia.” Peter is in the hall, staring through the doorway. He looks pissed. “Can I speak to you for a moment? In private?”

Talia’s eyes flash red at Peter for something so closely resembling a direct order, but after a moment she does go out into the hallway with him. Peter doesn’t spare a backwards glance for Stiles as they walk away, and Stiles never does get to find out what Talia was going to tell him.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles is up in his room, uncomfortable as all get out, when he hears Derek’s motorcycle power off in front of the house. He’s home from work. Where before Stiles had been intensely considering another round of masturbation, he now shoots off of his bed like it’s been lit on fire. “No, no, no!” he whispers to himself while rooting around for the nearest hoodie and pair of pants. Anything that’ll be easy to take off again. He cannot be in this house, in this state, with Derek. Derek’s room is right next to his. He’ll hear him, he’ll smell him, and if he is stupid enough to come into Stiles’ room… Well if that happens, Stiles won’t be responsible for his actions any more.

He’s sloppily-dressed in seconds, and he shoots downstairs and out the back door faster than a fox being chased by a wolf. He doesn’t know if anybody hears him but he doesn’t stop to find out. Stiles is across the backyard and through the tree line in a flash, and he only puts up with running through the brush for so long before he stops, sheds his sweats, and curls up on the ground to shift.

It isn’t unbearable like that first time. His body has grown used to the change, just as Peter had said it would. Two years and a lot of practice have made the shift into a welcomed thing, rather than a nightmare. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as the first slide of muscle over bone starts. His fingers curl, his teeth lengthen, his pelvis tilts. He focuses his attention on the heat in his core, on the scrape of the dead leaves against his forehead, all of that and the sweet, popping pain that comes as his body rearranges itself into that of a wolf. He cries out despite himself—he always does—and where the sound begins as human, it ends as wolf. Then it’s over and it doesn’t hurt any more.

Stiles blinks with his wolf eyes, seeing everything in shades of olive and grey. It calms him. He chuffs into the air, getting to his feet and taking a few steps. His ears are hyper-sensitive in these first few minutes of the shift, and he can hear all the little animals out there, miles into the preserve. He can hear Talia and Peter discussing his break for it on the back porch. They don’t sound like they’re coming after him, which is good. But Stiles isn’t interested in hearing them. His wolf even less so. He starts to lope through the underbrush.

It’s early September, so the woods still smell mostly of living, budding things. Stiles prefers summer, but his wolf cannot wait for fall to come again in full force. Falling leaves, decaying plants, and cold air— _those_ are the smells that the wolf likes. Winter is a second favorite. There is nothing in the world quite like the high of chasing a rabbit down through snow and freezing water, sinking his teeth into it, and hearing it squeal before its blood rushes out as a hot gush in Stiles’ mouth. Nothing.

Stiles jumps over a log with ease, slowing down as he gets near the stream and his little island. He’ll go further into the woods than this, he thinks. Further, where Derek won't think to look for him should Talia send him out. They must know by now that he wants to be left alone. Stiles bends down and drinks from the water that trickles slowly by. He considers hunting something down now, but the urge to hunt and kill and eat is far overpowered by that other, annoying, _unrelenting_ urge that has been with him since early morning. The urge that, apparently, doesn’t go away even in his wolf form. 

Stiles can feel that, between his legs, he’s hard. Whatever version of a penis he’s got in this form—and really, he’s never seen it so he has no clue—is erect and touching the inside of his haunches. He whines in the back of his throat, his wolf knowing instinctively that it’s not safe to just _have it out there_ if he’s not going to do anything with it. And given that these are the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevada, there’s likely no wolf poon anywhere to be found. And _ew_ , Stiles cannot believe that he just thought about girl wolves’ private parts. He shakes his head, sneezing at the air as if to expel the thought. He’s got to get away from here. 

His wolf—primal as it is—is telling him to burrow. It wants him to find a den, a safe, warm place where he can be with his mate and… Stiles’ eyes widen (well, they would if he was human right now). Mate? What the hell? He hasn’t even had his first date yet! No, he thinks, he does not need to be thinking about mate-anything. But… a den sounds pretty nice. Maybe he can find one of those dolomite caves that Peter has always said were out here, hide out in it until this insanity passes. Deciding that this is exactly what he’ll do, Stiles dips his head to drink more water. 

A noise comes from the left. Stiles’ ears twitch mid-slurp, but any reaction he can give to the thing moving through the brush is too late. It pounces on him.

The thing is Derek. He knows this from scent first, sight second. Stiles’ defensive snarl melts into a questioning growl as he realizes that he doesn’t have to rip out his attacker’s throat. Derek’s in his human form, and if Stiles could, he’d roll his eyes. Derek lets him go and Stiles butts his head into Derek’s face, rebuking him for tackling him so. They can’t communicate verbally like this, but Stiles knows that his message of _what the fuck did you think you were doing, you dumbass?_ gets through clearly. Stiles had nearly sunk teeth into his carotid. Pulling away, he curls petulantly on the ground near Derek’s side. He shouldn’t have stopped to drink. Now Derek’s found him and he won’t leave him alone because Talia probably said to watch out for his safety or something stupid like that. He rumbles low in his throat again.

“Shut up,” Derek chides him, not sounding at all upset. He doesn’t even sound winded from his wolf-wresting. “I know why you’re hiding out here,” he says.

Stiles huffs a breath. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. What he wants even less is to lie here in a non-verbal state while forced to listen to Derek give him a one-sided lecture. He puts his front paws out to push up, but Derek notices and leans all of his body weight against Stiles’ back so that he can’t go anywhere.

“Oh no you don’t. So you finally presented?” Derek asks. “And you’re omega, huh?” A whine from Stiles has Derek confirming, “Yeah, I can smell it. It’s funny: I’ve never met an omega before, but I’d know this scent anywhere. You smell…” he pauses, considering, “Sweet. Like the inside of an ice cream shop.”

Stiles bristles. At least it’s better than Gardenias, but Derek sounds and smells aroused and for some reason it alarms Stiles. His wolf doesn’t like that Derek’s the one here, pinning him to the dirt. His wolf wants someone else, but right now Stiles hasn’t the clarity of mind to figure out just who that might be. He wants to leave, and his back leg kicks at Derek in the vain hope that it’ll do something. It doesn’t. Unable to talk, Stiles plops his head down despondently in the dirt, grumbling in the back of his throat to show his displeasure.

“So what?” Derek pokes him. “You’re going to live out here for the next week? Because that’s how long it’ll last; your heat.” Maybe he hears Stiles’ sub-vocal grumble at the word, because he chuckles and start up a soothing pet along Stiles’ pelt. Stiles plans to ignore it but Derek pulls out the big guns and scritches between his shoulder blades. Stiles’ eyes slam shut and his back leg shudders. “You’ll have to get over it,” Derek says plainly. “So you’re going to get crazy horny every month and have men and women drooling over you, so what? I can think of worse things.”

Stiles can’t. And why is Derek doing this, huh? Why is he _touching_ him like he never has before? Stiles whines again. 

“Change back,” Derek tells him, voice hushed. “Stiles. I know you’re scared. And embarrassed. But it’s me. You don’t have to be those things around me.” Carefully, he leans down to rub his cheek at Stiles’ scruff, the weight of his skull a comfort and his voice that much closer to Stiles’ wolf ears. “Change back for me.” Stiles doesn’t decide to do it. His wolf does. It just pushes him out of its body, and within thirty seconds he’s left there on the forest floor, lying naked in Derek’s arms. Derek blinks down at him, a smile curling the edges of his mouth. And from the dark stubble of his beard to the green of his eyes Stiles loves every detail of him. He is unforgivably handsome. “There he is,” Derek teases. “There’s the Stiles I know.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,” Stiles complains. 

Derek’s eyes bleed over as he leans closer. “A kid?” he asks, sniffing him. “Stiles you’re sixteen years old. Your wolf is grown. You just went into heat, for Christ’s sake. Trust me: I see you as anything but a kid.” He tilts, and his lips fit over Stiles’ like they were made to be there. Stiles feels the thinking part of his brain stutter and shut off. He sees white behind his eyelids and can only figure that white is the color of unadulterated happiness, because that is what he is right now. Derek is kissing him, easing him open with his lips and slipping his tongue inside and—oh, when he does that Stiles feels it travel straight down to his cock. 

Aaand—his cock… Right. 

It’s there, between them, eager and most definitely gay because it. is. hard. That’s about when Stiles remembers that he’s butt naked underneath a very much still-clothed Derek. A clothed Derek who, by the way, has already romantically rejected him. Stiles gasps and pulls his mouth back. Derek’s spit gets on his chin and somehow, that doesn’t gross him out. Maybe it’s because Derek is right there above him with the same spit-slick and swollen lips, and Stiles can feel where Derek’s facial hair rubbed his cheeks red and he wishes he could feel that every day. They share breath between the two of them, panting at what just happened. Derek seems pleased, Stiles is confused. “Derek,” he says. “What are we—”

“Kissing, Stiles,” he interrupts. “We’re kissing.” He pauses. “Is this your first kiss?”

“ _No_.” But like: _Yeah_. “Why are we? I mean not that I don’t like it cause yeah I definitely do but… why?” Derek’s never wanted him before and it’s been the bane of Stiles’ existence. “You said you didn’t want me. You said—”

“—I do.” Derek noses evasively into the juncture of Stiles’ neck and ear, his wolf craving the scent. _Because you’re omega_ , he thinks but doesn’t know how to say. _Because you smell like hot, dripping sex. Because I really really want to_. “Because,” he says instead, “it’s good.” If he was any kind of decent, he wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d get off of Stiles and not indulge himself like this. Stiles has had a crush on him for years. Derek knows better than to toy with some dumb kid’s emotions like this.

He still does it though.

He dips down again, kissing Stiles deeper and dirtier, and he relishes the way that Stiles squeaks, the way the kid’s body wiggles under his own. Stiles is like a trapped animal beneath him, and like prey dying between his wolf’s teeth, it is uniquely attractive. Stiles’ pulse is a rabbit’s heart, beating insanely fast, and Derek wants to _do something_ to Stiles. Whether it’s rip him open or fuck him bloody, the animal part of his brain hasn’t yet decided. Derek kisses Stiles and thinks of Kate; Kate is alpha just like him. Most people are. Either that or else beta. Derek has never had the chance to experience this—whatever this is—with someone who is naturally submissive to him, with an omega who smells like ice cream shops and will squirm and splay out for whatever Derek gives him. There are feelings and instincts coming to life that he’s never felt before. The intoxicating effect of it has him feeling less in control of himself than he has in years. It’s perhaps a bit like being thirteen again and getting drunk for the first time. And just as irresponsible, it has him relinquishing power to the wolf that lives inside him.

It’s a guilty indulgence of a heaven. Stiles moans into their shared kiss, licking into Derek’s mouth with little finesse but all the enthusiasm in the world. Derek’s soaring so he lets him, fingers curling along the burning skin that demarks Stiles’ butt from his hip. Between them, Stiles’ erection is a rigid thing, a very evident display of his arousal as he rubs up against Derek’s thigh. It’s not like Derek isn’t hard too—he is. But if Derek is at the cruising altitude of arousal, Stiles is in the goddamn stratosphere. It has not escaped Derek how desperately in heat Stiles is. Beneath him, Stiles’ body is spread out, pale skin against Derek and the dirt. He’s naked, and Derek’s wolf howls at him to be just as naked, to _mount_. Stiles is sweaty and out of breath. His cheeks and neck are flushed. His pheromones are raging and even if they weren’t, the smell of slick would be enough to do Derek in. Between his legs, Stiles is soaking wet. Derek wants to break away from kissing so that he can stick his head between Stiles’ legs and breathe him in, lick him up. He goes lower in pursuit of that goal.

Even if he weren’t an omega wolf in the middle of his first heat, Stiles would prrrobably do absolutely nothing to stop what is currently going on. Derek’s licking his chest and—Ohholygod. _Hello_ that’s his nipple—it’s making him feel so damned good. So desperate. This is definitely beyond normal, virginal, want-to-get-laid territory. There’s an ache in him that’s entirely novel and Stiles needs to get rid of it. He’d do anything to get rid of it. Like, he’d probably fuck a particularly attractive-looking stick to get rid of it. Lucky for him, there’s no need for such measures. There’s a perfectly superhot werewolf above him.

Stiles will have a bruised head tomorrow because he’s been digging his skull into the earth as if it has goose down and a five thousand thread count cover. He’s been squeezing his eyes shut too. Now he peeks out of one eye, dares to take a look at the man who is doing these things to him. His claws dig into the dirt and his vision is stuck in tones of olive and grey, but Stiles can still see and process with his human mind. No one should look as good as Derek does when licking another person’s body. Stiles cannot stand the licks. He’d rather they were scratches, or bites. Something deeper, meaner. He needs that. 

By the time Derek reaches his belly button, Stiles has figured out where he’s is taking this. He makes a noise high in his throat that sounds like protest, but all Stiles can think is _yes_ , and _fuck mate breed capture me please_. He spreads his legs wider when Derek reaches his cock. 

Derek never asks for his consent, and Stiles never gives it. They just proceed from there, neither of them sure how far it will go.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The sun is near to setting when Stiles returns, walking blissfully into the house. He is oblivious to the stares of Peter and Talia on the deck above. They’ve both been sitting on the patio furniture since dinner. The idea was to have a glass (or three or four) of wine to forget about the weird, hormone-riddled day they’d been dealt. But the sight of a love-drunk teenager traipsing bonelessly back into the house isn’t exactly what they’d been expecting. Derek was supposed to bring Stiles back, after all. Not molest him. The soft ‘snick’ of the sliding glass door indicates that, below, Stiles has entered the basement to make it back upstairs to his room. This seems to break Peter out of some trance. He snarls and sets his merlot to the side, standing to go down to the backyard. This. is. unacceptable. 

Talia has a keen sense when it comes to her brother’s fits of rage. She sees the anger as it bubbles over the disbelief, and intercepts him before he’s taken the first, menacing step towards the woods. Miraculously, her pinot grigio hasn’t spilled with the effort. “Peter! Don’t. He’s fine.” Far from abating his anger, this only causes the man to swivel on her.

“Fine?” He gestures to where the both of them have just witnessed Stiles wobbling back into the house, lust-drunk. “What do you think they did out there?!” 

“I…”

“He had no right to touch him!” Peter snarls. 

“I’m sure it, whatever it was, was consensual.”

“Consensual?” Peter spits. “Did you even see him?” From breakfast to just now, Stiles’ appearance has rapidly degraded to one of obvious heat fever. Peter knows that Talia could see it as easily as him when Stiles walked back into the house. He had leaves in his hair, he’d clearly shifted, and it was a minor miracle that he’d been able to find and shrug-on the clothes he’d started out with. “He can’t consent to anything in that state!” Peter feels murderous. His shit of a nephew has taken horrible advantage of Stiles. And what makes it worse is that Peter is pretty sure this has nothing to do with affection on Derek’s part. He’s just as sure that Derek hasn’t told Stiles that. Peter’s heart would break for the kid if he wasn’t so busy being jealous out of his mind. 

Because Peter is pretty sure that Derek took some portion of Stiles’ virginity out there in the woods, and it has him reeling. Peter knows that a glass and a half of merlot could never have him this intoxicated. No, it would take a full bottle of laced liquor to get to this point of insensibility. But he’s there nonetheless, his mind half-commandeered by a more feral power as he whips through images of the possibilities: Derek, fisting Stiles’ rigid cock to teach him the meaning of pleasure, laving his mouth over the leaking head to the sounds of Stiles’ sobs. Derek thrusting into the sweetness of Stiles’ glistening, begging hole. Peter clenches his teeth and eyes shut as if all of these things are nearly unbearable to imagine. It is indecent! It is wrong. 

He ignores the part where his wolf wants to be the one inside of Stiles instead. Peter looks at the tree line of the woods as if he’ll burn it down. He’s just waiting, waiting for the moment when Derek steps out. He’ll teach his nephew exactly what the words ‘I’m sorry’ really mean…

“Peter…” 

Peter ignores his sister’s voice. She fades to background noise in his wolf’s ears. _Derek_ , is all that he can think. Derek is out there in the woods, and he’s done god knows what to Stiles. With half a mind to shift, Peter sniffs the air for any trace of the boy who has dared to touch Stiles, who has dared to lay on a hand on his _mate_. A growl resonates uncontrollably in his throat, urging a shift forward. Peter’s wolf doesn’t want him to be human anymore. It wants him to switch gears and _fucking take care of this_. 

“Peter!” Talia’s voice has changed from concerned, to harsh and clipped. Once Peter turns to her, he see that her eyes have bled red and that she is not joking around. She’s in alpha mode. “Peter, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” she says. “Stop what you’re doing.” Peter blinks, not understanding until he looks down at himself—he’s shed his clothes in preparation for the change. He doesn’t remember doing that at all. Talia doesn’t bat an eye at his nudity. But she does sound firm as she orders, “Go to your room and stay there.”

Peter’s room is off of the basement of the house, away from everyone else’s. It’s the way he likes it, usually. Now he realizes: it’s away from Stiles’ room. His wolf whines at the prospect. He should be with Stiles, shouldn’t he? If he’s not killing Derek then he should be sharing a den with his mate. His mate who is in heat and needs so much. _Needs him_ , his mind urges. Peter shakes his head, what little part of human that’s left to him right now blinking at Talia. “Stiles,” he says. “I need to help him.” Talia looks at him like some fierce goddess that will not be swayed, her red eyes and claws out to full effect. The look of her screams _Alpha_ , and _Power_ , and _Listen to me or so help you God_ … The look of her has Peter’s back bowing in submission that does not come easily to him. “Alpha,” he whispers, instinctively recoiling from the conflict of what his wolf wants and what his leader tells him, “ _Please_.”

“Go to your room and stay there,” she says, voice gone deep. “Stiles is in no danger now and I won’t permit you to eviscerate my son. Go. NOW Peter! As your alpha commands.”

It’s a slap to the face, but something about it brings Peter back from the verge of shifting. His wolf shrinks into the distance of his mind, howling in protestation all the way. Peter, plain human Peter, winds up giving Talia the curtest of nods before he flees to lock himself inside of his own room for the rest of the evening. 

 

He winds up spending the rest of the night vacillating between sessions of intense indulgence, and of vicious self-criticism for being unable to resist the pull of the boy whom Derek had always said was his destined mate. But it’s all just so freaking indecent, and… _God damn that little turd for being right_. 

Peter doesn’t want it to be true. He’d been doing just fine before some stupid human kid had come into their lives, and he’s pretty sure that Stiles has life goals other than being tied down to _the punisher_ of the Beacon County pack. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--


	6. Chapter 6

The first heat is horrible, awful, embarrassing. Human puberty has nothing on this. Absolutely nothing. Fuck human puberty, Stiles thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Humans have no idea how damn easy they have it, with their pimples and their b.o. Stiles wishes he could be so lucky. He thinks of Derek almost every minute. He wishes he was there.

But Derek has classes one hour and work the next, every day and all day. And even if he didn’t, Stiles is pretty sure that Talia and Peter have told him to keep the hell away while Stiles is in heat. Without Derek for comfort, Stiles wants to stay out in the forest for the four and a half days that it lasts, but Talia forbids it. The trespassing wolves that’ve been seen in the county make it too dangerous, she says. So Stiles is forced to remain. He shifts at the tree line and lies in the backyard each day, miserable and bored. 

At Talia’s behest, Peter makes an attempt to come out the second day and educate Stiles on the more private intricacies of being an omega male. Stiles growls low in his throat as Peter talks embarrassedly about biology and urges and—god help him—birth control. When Peter dares to bring up the fact that, as an omega, other wolves might try to take advantage of him, or the fact that Stiles can get pregnant, Stiles snarls and lunges a snap at the man to make it clear that this. conversation. is. OVER. Thankfully Peter is more than happy to be chased away and he returns to the house with a scowl and the middle finger held up for his sister to see. Stiles settles his hackles and flops back down onto the grass. After that nobody bothers him, and that’s probably wise. 

It’s only at dinner that he sees his family. He holes himself up in his room in the evenings but Laura has declared that she’s not about to hand-deliver a “sulking teenager’s” food to his bedroom door, and that if Stiles wants to eat, he can manage to sit at the table like a civilized human being for thirty minutes. 

Stiles barely refrains from asking if that means he can eat from a dog bowl out back if he stays distinctly non-human. Unfortunately, Talia backs Laura up and Stiles finds himself seated at the dinner table between snot-nosed Cora, and Derek’s empty chair. Stiles looks up as Laura is bringing over the last dish to set on the table. She’s been cooking Stiles’ favorite foods, as if this is enough to sway him into being social. So far they’ve had tacos and pizza. Last night it was lasagna. Now they’re having meatloaf and macaroni and cheese and green beans, and even though Stiles should be excited because Laura’s meatloaf is very good, all he can think about is the vacant chair beside him. It’s been vacant every night since the first night. “Where’s Derek?” Stiles decides to ask. “Why’s he never here?”

Cora seems entertained that Stiles has asked this. Peter does not. Stiles doesn’t miss the way that Peter’s hands tighten on the serve ware as he cuts slices from the meatloaf. Talia says, “He’s been working a lot of late hours at his job.”

“I thought it was just a part time job,” Stiles says. “Now he’s suddenly there all the time?” 

Peter smacks a slice of meatloaf onto his plate with a little too much vigor. “It’s good he’s out of the house,” he says lowly. “Work keeps people like him out of trouble.” By ‘trouble’, Stiles can figure out what Peter is referring to. There’s no mistaking it when the alpha locks eyes with him from down the table; Peter knows what went on between Derek and he in the woods. And if Peter knows then Talia knows. And hell, Laura and Cora probably do too. It’s awful, but the most confusing part is that it’s Peter knowing that upsets Stiles the most. His wolf—closer to the surface now because he’s been spending so much time shifted—wants to whine and offer its throat in apology to Peter. 

Stiles feels himself blush a little and tries to scowl to make up for it. “Whatever,” he mumbles, and helps himself to a heaping spoonful of Macaroni. He’ll eat as fast as he can and get indigestion just so that he can escape up to his room all the faster. As soon as this heat is over, he’s getting to Derek.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

Junior year Stiles makes the varsity lacrosse team, just like Derek always said he would. Derek’s not there to cheer him on for his first game, or his second. Stiles doesn’t hold out hope for the rest of the season. He’d still move mountains for Derek, but there’s a distance between them now that’s worse than before, and Stiles has no idea how to fix it. He’s half-convinced that it’s his own fault in the first place. It’s his fault for turning out the way that he has. Derek still tends to corner him when he’s in heat and Peter’s not around. Being a red-blooded sixteen year old, Stiles does nothing to stop it, but he can tell that Derek is not as invested in it as he is. Something in his gut roils, telling him that this is not what he’s been hoping for, and it’s certainly not what his wolf wants. Kate’s still the one with whom Derek renovates the big shed after all. And Stiles is smart enough to realize when he’s someone’s second option. 

But other things happen Junior year. Enough to distract him anyways. Talia’s cancer gets worse. Nobody _says_ this, of course. But in a house full of werewolves nobody really has to. There’s a smell that permeates the house and though it’s not _bad_ per se, Stiles associates it with sickness, and weakness, and Talia. He wonders if other wolves—wolves not in their family—can smell it. If so, it would make sense why Peter and Laura take up the public duties more and more. It would be bad for word to get around about their pack’s weakened alpha. 

Cora likes to tell Stiles the stories she’s invented about the “savage” ways of other packs from other counties in the next state over. How they fight over leadership like animals, sniffing and biting and raping and killing; constantly battling for the tile of alpha, squabbling for ownership over each other in their near-meaningless hierarchy of alphas, betas, and omegas. She thinks it scares him. It does a little, but mostly Stiles just sees Cora’s vitriol for what it really is; fear of losing her mother. And Besides, Stiles figures that the humans and wolves of Beacon County have done their fair share of meaningless fighting too. He’s quite sure that he’ll never meet anyone from Nevada anyway.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

Talia is still around, putting up her brave front. And she doesn’t exactly grow gaunt or frail or anything you’d expect of a dying woman. But gradually she becomes beholden to her room, weakened in ways that the wolves can sense more than the human bodies in which they reside. And Stiles realizes one afternoon as Laura shuts the office door, that it’s _Peter_ he sees her following after all the time now. The roles in the house shift and Stiles hates it. 

Whether or not Peter’s doing a good job of running things remains to be seen. A few confrontations happen in the county. It’s little things mostly, wolves against humans in petty arguments. But the squabbles build on each other. It begins to feel untenably dangerous, and like a flint striking steel, it threatens to spark something worse. All Stiles knows is that the kids at school talk negatively about humans more than they used to, and that when the Hales go into Beacon Hills now they get a hell of a lot more nasty looks than they used to.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

Stiles begins having strange dreams. Not that he hasn’t had strange dreams in the past—he has—but not like these ones. He starts dreaming of a place that he’s never been before.

It’s a glade in a forest, flooded from rain. The air is warm and familiar and Stiles always finds himself sitting in a boat. It’s a little boat, like the kind one or two men could go fishing in. He always comes into the dream sitting there, not hardly moving in the flooded forest. There’s a soft lap of water against the side of the boat, more of a feeling than a sound in the stillness of the moment. Birds hoop in the distance, echoing out across the water and making the place seem that much more isolated. It’s not a place that Stiles has ever been and yet it feels so _real_. A soft daylight fills the air, and everything is still and calm, hardly any wind to speak of as lazy drops of water fall down from tree branches. It’s a beautiful place, if strange. In the dream Stiles feels calm, as if he’s away from all of his problems, whatever they are. Pleasant goosebumps erupt on his skin. In the dream Stiles is safe and unburdened. 

He never shakes the feeling that it’s someone else’ memory.

It’s always partway into the dream by the time that Stiles realizes he’s not alone. Partway into the dream, everything shifts a little in the water, the balance of everything tilting. Stiles stiffens. The dancing water bugs skitter from the edges of the boat as if to suggest that Stiles should do the same. And no matter how many times he dreams it, there is a second each time where he really wants to. It’s only when arms wrap around him from behind and hold him so securely, that he feels himself relax. The sweetest, most familiar scent can be smelled, and Stiles aches to turn around to see who it is that’s holding him. But it’s as if the dream won’t let him. All he can do is enjoy the moment while it lasts.

As with any dream, eventually he wakes up, trying and failing to make sense of nonsensical imagery. Stiles craves this dream feeling of utter contentment. When he’s in heat each month, stuck sulking out back or writhing in his bed each night, he thinks of nothing but the strange person in his dream, wishing they could be real, someone to calm the fever inside of him. Someone as soothing and perfect as a boat, floating in spring woods. 

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

Making the lacrosse team and getting to play alongside Danny is pretty freaking awesome. In Stiles’ sixteen-year-old opinion, it’s practically the height of his high school experience. He’s peaked. This is it for him. Life is peachy keen and he may as well enjoy the hell out of it because it’ll probably be all downhill from here on out. So yeah, his jersey number is eight. He becomes one of the team’s top scorers, and he and Danny have a fun time laughing about how much this upsets Jackson. 

It’s Friday night; game night. This game night finds Stiles particularly ecstatic. He’s sitting next to Danny on the locker room bench, a stupid grin on his face. A pretty beta girl in the grade below has asked Stiles out to homecoming and he’s (totally nonchalantly of course) said YES! Now he’s got a date and he can’t stop talking about it, even though no one in the locker room wants to hear it anymore. “I mean, did you know she was into me?” Stiles prompts Greenburg yet again. The guy scoots further down the bench to try and escape Stiles’ enthusiasm, but Stiles doesn’t take note. “Because I didn’t,” he’s saying. “I thought she was a, you know… _a lesbian_. What with her girlfriend and all—not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he hurries to say. “I totally love the gays. Come on back me up here Danny boy.” Danny raises his eyebrows. “But anyway Caitlin says she swings both ways! So who am I to complain?” Stiles is grinning ear to ear as he remembers how the girl had cornered him after fourth period. “Man Danny I love assertive women. Assertive women are totally underrated.” He sighs happily. “I mean she just came right over with this cute look on her face. And there she was, pushing me against the locker and smiling…”

“We know,” Jackson is glaring from the bench across the way. “Get your gear on Stilinski and stop talking about your little girlfriend. We don’t need to hear about how excited you are to lose your v-card.”

Danny tells Jackson to shut up, and though Stiles appreciates it he still grits his teeth at the insult. His happy chatter has been effectively squished. He wants to snap at Jackson that he _has_ lost his v-card, that a superhot werewolf several years their senior has, in fact, done enough things to him to make him thoroughly _un_ virginal. But of course he can’t say this. As the team’s resident omega he’s got to defend his masculinity at every turn, and admitting that he’s let Derek Hale do a number of non-brotherly things to him is not the way to achieve that goal. So he settles for an uninspired “screw you Whittemore.” And there’s nothing more to say after that because then Coach is giving his pregame speech.

 

The bright floodlights of the field are one of the most intimidating and wonderful things Stiles will ever associate with lacrosse. For a second as they run out, he’s blinded by them. And then his eyes adjust and he hears everyone cheering, and the lights are only a brilliant glow around the edges of everything else. They break into playing the game with the confidence that the last six wins have garnered them. It’s mid-October and the air is cold. Two minutes into the game and none of the first string players feel it anymore though. They’re werewolves, and even if they weren’t they’d still be running around enough to chase any sense of cold away. Stiles scores one of their team’s three goals and before they know it it’s half time and coach and Jackson are growling stupid encouraging words at them. It’s the first chance that Stiles gets to glance out at the crowd.

He squints past the lights. He’s looking for Derek, even though he knows that it’s silly to hope. Lacrosse is the only sport that matters in Beacon County and the bleachers are packed. Stiles scans all of the people, wonders if this is what it feels like to be on stage when you’re famous. Maybe. This is probably the closest he’ll ever come to that. He’s got about a second and a half to spend thinking about the shallow fame of high school before his eyes land on a face. There’s a man sitting halfway up the left side of the stands, and he’s alone. There’s nothing special about him. He should be anonymous, unnoticeable, packed into all these people as he is. And yet Stiles’ attention zooms in on the man as if to a beacon. He can tell that the man is alone, that he doesn’t blend in. He stands out like a pox on pale skin—not pack, Stiles’ wolf growls. _Not pack_. He wonders how nobody else notices.

This man is no one he recognizes, and yet for some reason Stiles feels a shiver roll up his spine. The wolf in him wants to get closer, close enough to smell him and figure out his scent. The stranger is young, perhaps Derek’s age, and with his dishwater blond hair and dull eyes, he’s not very impressive looking. The look in those eyes though… it holds the anger, the ambition of years. From all the way across the field this man manages to creep Stiles the hell out. His fingers tighten on his lacrosse stick, the cradle of it digging into the ground at his feet as Finstock says something about proper grouping. He feels like he should tell coach something, warn the people in the stands. But that would be crazy wouldn’t it? Yelling out about some random spectator? The man isn’t even doing anything. He just sits there, staring.

Stiles holds his tongue and tries to listen to coach Finstock’s words, even though his brain is urging him to run. There is something wrong about the stranger sitting in the stands and though Stiles has no fucking clue what it is and frankly doesn’t care, his wolf does. Inside it circles anxiously, whining high in its throat. A slow anxiety begins to creep up on Stiles, so slight at first that he doesn’t notice the feeling for what it is. Why would he, after all? Panic attacks have a nasty way of sneaking up on you. 

His muscles tense up and he begins to feel the cold October air seep back in, chilling his skin in a way that it shouldn’t be able to. Stiles grips his fingers together until they ache, trying not to fidget, or jump up and pace. It’s getting harder and harder to remain sitting on the bench and listen to Finstock’s words. He feels his breath beginning to come shorter, each inhale becoming more of a labor than the one previous. The panicked feeling that tends to come with it sets in, and once again Stiles is desperate to believe that he can breathe, that he can inhale when he wants to and have control of that one, basic function. The sinking feeling continues He looks up at the crowd again, but this time he locks eyes with Talia and Peter. He mouths out to Peter the silent word ‘help’, and begins to walk off the field. Finstock’s shouts of _‘get the hell back here Stilinski!’_ go ignored.

Peter meets him in the shadows of the bleachers, grabbing him quickly as he semi-collapses from lack of oxygen. “What is it?” Peter asks worriedly. “A panic attack? Stiles? What?!” Stiles nods. Or at least he thinks he does. He tries to. “What triggered it?” Peter looks confused as he holds Stiles up. He looks concerned. Stiles would laugh if he wasn’t so out of breath already. “Someone on the team?” Peter asks. The other boys at school have been known to give Stiles a hard time since he presented. “Was it Jackson? What’d he do?”

But Stiles shakes his head, and he’s only getting dizzier. Peter’s normally the one who can force him out of his panic attacks but this time it doesn’t seem to be working. The scent of cinnamon and calming touch aren’t enough now. “It was a wolf. He doesn’t belong. The wolf…” he chokes out on half of his last exhale of breath, “He’s a sss’tray…” His wild eyes look up at Peter and see the man who’s helped him before. His wolf sees its savior, and for just a millisecond before he passes out, Stiles does too. Later, he’ll blame it on the lack of oxygen.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

After the incident at the lacrosse game, Stiles is watched more closely. By Finstock, by Peter, by pretty much everyone. Given his history he’s always been stared at, but now Stiles gets the feeling that people view him as a spaz, some sort of loose cannon, and he doesn’t like that one bit. His panic attacks increase until eventually he has one in school and then everyone knows about it. Stiles can’t figure out why, but it would seem that he’s unraveling. Not fast, but rather slow, like a thread being pulled from a sweater: bit by bit.

He starts having different dreams than the ones with the boat. To be specific, he starts having weird, first-person nightmareific dreams. Well they would be nightmares, except that when Stiles dreams them he’s not scared. He’s just aware that someone is, was, or will be. But it isn’t him. He has horrific dreams and watches them with all the disconnected fascination in the world. Most of the dreams feature fire as the focal point. Stiles dreams of smoky, stinking flames that lick up his body no matter how hard he tries to stop them. He watches his skin melt and he hears jeering voices beyond the ghost-like pain, and the strangest part is that when he wakes from the dreams soaked in a cold sweat, he never feels scared; he feels sad. Tears stain his face and by the time he’s conscious Stiles has no idea who he’s crying for. None of it makes sense. After a while he doesn’t care about solving the riddle anymore. He just wishes the dreams would stop.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__

“Let’s just leave without her,” Stiles complains, tired of waiting for Cora to get her ass out of the house for this run. 

“Just wait,” Talia tells him calmly. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

_Speak for yourself_ , Stiles wants to say. But everyone else seems like they _do_ have time and Stiles doesn’t want to point himself out as the weak one. So he settles for agitated fidgeting and preemptive removal of his shoes and socks. Above them all, the moon is bright and swollen and not to be ignored. Stiles’ wolf is itching under his skin and he feels like if he waits any longer he’ll lose control and ruin a perfectly good set of clothes. “Stupid,” he mutters, feeling no love for Cora in the moment. “What’s she even _doing_? God.”

Peter comes over and presses a heavy hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Calm down.” It’s a combination of touch, dominant eye contact, and pheromones that he drops on Stiles. Whether he does this to be helpful, or simply to stop the annoyance of Stiles’ chattering isn’t clear. But it works. Stiles’ wolf instantly stops pacing and circling so much, and Stiles can’t bring himself to rebuke Peter for the controlling gesture.

Before Peter can step away they all hear Cora bounding out of the house, singing “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” to ward off any chastisements. “Erica had a question about chemistry and she’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box so I had to help!”

Talia does seem annoyed but she settles for an eye roll rather than doing anything. “Let’s go,” she says simply, well aware that it’s not easy for Stiles especially to be standing out here under the full moon without shifting. Talia begins removing her clothes, and everyone else quickly follows.

The clothes thing, or more specifically the lack of clothes thing, was hard for Stiles at first. Werewolves go naked around each other fairly infrequently. But infrequently is still a hell of a lot more often than humans do it. After nearly seven years though it’s become quite normal to Stiles. Nakedness around family members isn’t a thing for werewolves, per se, but as it tends to be a necessary condition for the shifting and running that happens during the full moon—a very social activity, mind you—the nakedness does tend to happen more often than not. 

Stiles pulls down his pants with no more hesitation than any other member of his adopted family. It’s not incestual or anything like that; that’s the first thing he’d probably try to explain to any confused human who might not understand. He’d probably explain it as: yeah they’re naked but they don’t try to not look at each other but they also don’t really look on purpose either. Stiles removes his underwear last of all, figuring that he’d probably just mangle any attempt at an explanation if he ever had to give one. Family and pack runs are a very good reason (though Stiles hates to admit it) for why humans aren’t allowed into the preserve.

This time is just like any other time. Everybody stands along the tree line in the back yard and efficiently takes off their clothes. The members of the Hale family pack fall into two very distinct categories: pile people, and stack people. Like Peter and Cora, Stiles is a piler. He just throws his clothes right there on the ground in, _you know_ , a LOGICAL PILE, since he’s just going to shuck them on haphazardly after the run anyways. It’s kind of like making beds. What’s the point?

Laura and Talia and—surprisingly but not really—Derek, are stackers. They somehow feel the unnatural need to meticulously fold each removed article of clothing and have them sat in a nice tidy bunch on the grass before anything fun can commence. Stiles, Cora and Peter have developed a treeline tradition of rolling their eyes at each other and huffing pointedly until their three meticulous pack mates finish wasting time. When they finally do shift, it’s a glorious relief.

__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__*__


	7. Chapter 7

By mid December things in the preserve are pretty grey. Stiles has another heat and even though remaining primarily in his wolf form has sort of become his modus operandi during these times, it’s cold and rainy out and even his wolf doesn’t want any part of that. Stiles gives himself permission to instead take over Derek and Kate’s shed. 

It’s warmer inside than he expected it to be. Stiles has lit a fire in the little wood stove that Derek installed. Between that and Derek’s scent permeating the room—Stiles ignores Kate’s—it’s not a bad place to hide out. The rain is somewhat muted but still a persistent staccato on the roof as Stiles works on an essay for English class. It’s the last of the work that he’s been sent home with for the week or so that he’s in heat. Stiles thinks that if his stupid Beta and Alpha teachers understood how awful it was to even go through a heat, they wouldn’t assign him so much work in the first place. 

At the same time Stiles doesn’t want to fall behind, or worse, be stigmatized and let off the hook easily. So he does all of the assignments without complaint. He even has some additional things to work on once he’s finished with his current work, in the hopes of getting far enough ahead to not have to do any assignments over Christmas break. Stiles snorts. Forget homework during heat. Homework during _Christmas_ is just plain cruel.

The afternoon ticks by and Stiles feels his fever build. He manages to finish writing the essay and then he crawls up onto the couch to try and get some sleep. Sleep always seems like a good solution for heat fever, but the reality is that in the end, dreams provide no more relief than anything else. Stiles winds up dozing to the sound of the rain outside. Slowly the sounds fade away, and he dreams intangible things like always. It’s hot, and Stiles doesn’t know where he is. He can hardly focus his eyes, can hardly hold onto a sound or a rational thought. In the dream he can tell that someone is with him, touching his naked body, offering something that Stiles needs but doesn’t understand. There are struggling, suffocating, choking waves of arousal that roll over him and make him desperate with need. Stiles cries out, feeling hot and thirsty and helpless.

Suddenly, the body against his grabs him close. It’s Stiles’ back to the other one’s chest, and that’s how he can tell with all of his muddled wits that this is a man holding him. Stiles feels hands slide down his chest, until he’s being cupped between his legs, held firmly in this person’s grip. His skin boils with want until finally they stroke him, fanning the flames that already lick up Stiles’ body. It’s painful, but Stiles tells the phantom figure thank you. No, he sobs it. In his dream he sobs the thank you and he begs for what he needs, not even knowing what that is. 

If this feeling was just arousal, that would be all well and good, but it isn’t. It’s arousal, coupled with the desperation of a thousand mosquito bites gone unscratched, a million splinters not plucked from the skin. Stiles feels like he’s losing his mind to it every time, and in a way it’s as painful as it is pleasurable when the phantom touches him anew, gently traces the wetness between his cheeks and puts his finger in him. 

_Dream_ Stiles’ eyes go wide, even though he sees nothing clearly. This touch, this touch, _fuck_ he’s burning up! He writhes as the body behind him strokes him in a new way now, touching places that— _yeah_ , so maybe Stiles has heard about but _come on_ —he had no idea felt this good. Stiles bucks against the man, tries to look over his shoulder to see him. “Derek,” he pants, wanting to see.

“Shhh,” the phantom hushes him, it’s voice very clearly not that of Derek. Stiles writhes in the flames, confused. He strains to look at the man holding him, the man who is giving him so much, the man whom he’s sure can give him relief, can teach him what it is that he needs. His eyes feel blurry and clouded, and he fights to blink it away. He can _almost_ make out the man’s features… His hands burn on Stiles, hotter and hotter, and just as Stiles manages to clearly see Peter’s face, inches away from his own, he’s startled awake.

It’s an abrupt shift, and Stiles hasn’t had time to process what he’s been dreaming of, _who_ he’s been dreaming about. Derek’s face is right beside him and it’s obvious that he’s just woken Stiles from his dream. Derek smiles that brilliant smile of his and greets him softly. “Hey,” he says, voice a gentle rumble that Stiles loves. “Thought I might find you out here.”

“Mmf,” Stiles rubs his face, feeling disoriented and hot. He can feel the slick between his legs and clenches his teeth in embarrassment. He knows that Derek must be able to smell everything. “What time is it?” he groans.

“About four thirty,” Derek tells him. He’s kneeling alongside the couch, and he leans in closely to ask, “Hey, you doing alright?”

“M’fine.”

“What were you dreaming about?” he asks, voice just barely tipping into teasing territory. “Me?” He sounds quite sure that it is he, in fact, that Stiles has been dreaming about. 

That only makes Stiles blush harder than necessary though. “No,” he says petulantly, shoving Derek in the shoulder. He’s mortified because actually it was Peter that he’d been dreaming of, and he has absolutely no explanation for that at all. It isn’t something he wants to think about.

It’s pouring down rain and Stiles knows exactly what Derek is going to do when his normally-green eyes darken to a steely, mindless grey. Derek’s lips are soft when they meet his, a stark contrast to the rough scratch of his beard. Derek is an _excellent_ kisser, and Stiles sighs into it like every time before. And like every time before, it progresses quickly. Derek moves on top of him on the couch, his weight a heady, enveloping press. Stiles is well aware of Derek’s erection where it presses through his clothes against Stiles’ stomach. His tee shirt has become rucked up and Derek paws at him, intent on removing his clothes entirely. He gets Stiles’ shirt off and makes it to undoing the button on his jeans before Stiles stops him with a tentative hand on his wrist. “Wait,” Stiles breathes, not sure what his next words will be. “Wait. I-can’t. Maybe…”

Derek’s eyes flash up to look at him for the first time since this started. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Derek doesn’t look at him when they do this. Derek always closes his eyes, or buries his face in Stiles’ neck while he grunts and gets off. Stiles cannot shake the feeling that Derek is only ever focused on the pleasure of rubbing off on a willing omega, and it’s finally unnerved him enough that he has to say something. Above him, Derek is looking confused. “What?” he says. “You don’t want to anymore?”

Stiles stammers, wants to say that he doesn’t want to continue if this is just ‘for fun’ in Derek’s mind. “I want to know, is this—what we’re doing—is this just…” He wants to bring up Kate, bring up the fact that he can still smell her scent permeating the walls of this place. He knows that he’s not the only one Derek fools around with, and he wants to call him out on it, to offer an ultimatum: Kate or Stiles. The space between their faces grows warm with tension and shared breaths, and Stiles tries hard to force himself to speak.

…But Derek is there above him, staring down at him with his perfectly good looks and it is much, much harder for Stiles to say anything that he’d planned on. His insides roil with the want and discomfort of heat, something he knows he cannot make go away without a partner, an alpha to bring him release. More than that though, Stiles cannot breathe at the thought of Derek giving him the wrong answer, of him getting up and leaving Stiles alone right now.

So Stiles says none of what he planned. Instead he just takes his hands away to allow Derek to continue, and even though nothing’s been resolved, he at least takes pleasure in knowing that he’s leaving his scent everywhere he can for Kate to find later. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

It’s still raining heavily when Derek leaves Stiles dozing in the shed. It’s fastest to reenter the house through the basement, and Derek closes the basement’s French doors with a shiver, glad to be indoors again. He moves across the carpet towards the stairs with the intention of grabbing a quick shower before dinner. He can vaguely make out his mother speaking with Cora on the main level.

He doesn’t make it to the stairs. Peter’s bedroom door opens and Derek is stopped by the man asking him to come in for a second. Derek doesn’t really want to—things have been tense between himself and his uncle these past couple of months—but he sighs and slips into the room not at all pleased when Peter takes the liberty of shutting the door. Shutting the door means that Peter probably intends to have somewhat of a _talk_.

Peter stands against the door and Derek takes a seat on the recliner that he _knows_ Peter doesn’t like anybody else but him sitting on. It’s Derek’s shallow vengeance for being forced into this… whatever this is going to be. From the serious look on his uncle’s face, he can tell that it’s going to be something.

“You were out back with Stiles,” Peter starts without preamble. Derek can tell right away that his uncle is making an effort to keep his voice low, just in case anyone should catch something from upstairs. 

Derek shrugs. “So what?” He and Stiles are practically brothers after all, aren’t they? He says as much to Peter, and it makes the man’s face harden.

“What you’ve been doing with him hasn’t exactly been brotherly behavior,” he grits. “I specifically told you to stop.” 

Derek stiffens, bristling at being admonished by Peter, of all people. “It’s not a big deal,” he deflects, “We’re just fooling around.”

“Does he know that?” Peter asks, anger evident in his voice. It’s Derek’s inability to say anything that answers the question clearly enough. “I didn’t think so. You need to stop this Derek. You’re going to hurt him.”

Derek snarls. “You think I’m taking advantage of him?”

“You are.”

“I’m not. Sure, Stiles has a crush on me. He always has. But I haven’t made any promises to him. I only go to him when he’s in heat.” 

“Exactly when you shouldn’t,” Peter snaps. “When he’s at his most vulnerable. He can’t consent when he’s like that.”

“He can!” Standing from the chair, Derek walks closer to Peter, saying, “And if you hadn’t noticed, he _needs_ to be touched Peter.”

Peter’s lip curls up. “Not by you.”

“If not me then who?!” Derek throws his hands up. “You?”

Peter’s face contorts, and it’s obvious how much he is at war with himself over this, at Derek’s suggestion that he should be the one to soothe Stiles’ fevers. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he evades. 

Derek looks at him with more knowledge than Peter would like. “You’d help him more than anyone else could, if you’d just let yourself.”

Peter growls, and this time it’s an animal sound, low in his chest. “Watch it Derek.”

But Derek persists, “You won’t do it, will you? You won’t go to him. Won’t give him what he needs.”

“I’m fourteen fucking years older than him!” Peter hisses. “He’s a child.”

Derek smirks. “You won’t even tell him why there’s a connection between you two. Will you ever tell him that you’re his mate?”

“He doesn’t need to know that,” Peter says. “And he won’t. You’ll keep your mouth shut just like everyone else in this house.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “Is that a threat?”

“You bet your ass it is you little turd.” Derek’s eyes flash red and that’s all the challenge it takes for Peter to whip him around by his shirt, shoving his back into the door, hard. “This isn’t up for discussion Derek! You do what I say or there will be serious consequences.”

For a split second Derek looks worried, but then haughtiness and disdain slip back in. Derek doesn’t take kindly to being threatened by another alpha. “What could you possibly do to me, huh? Talia’s my mother. The ALPHA.” Derek sneers. “So what if I gave away your little secret? It’s not like you could hurt me.”

“You see that’s where you’re wrong,” Peter seethes. “I can think of so many ways to hurt you Derek, it would make your head spin.” What Peter says next bothers even him, but he needs to say it in order to scare the shit out of his nephew: “Keep in mind that your mother. is. dying.” He can hear how Derek’s heart stutters at the words. Shock, perhaps. “She won’t be here forever to protect you,” Peter warns. “If you dare to go against me now, when I’m the pack alpha I won’t hesitate shred you for the tiniest of infractions. Remember that.”

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

Stiles wakes from a nap that feels like he’s slept forever, but when he wakes he can still feel the sweat on his skin. He figures he hasn’t been out longer than thirty, maybe forty minutes. Derek isn’t there, but that’s hardly a surprise. 

Stiles tries to wait it out but the rain only gets worse and it’s probably getting close to dinnertime and he’s hungry, so eventually he figures he’s just going to have to get soaked and he folds up his books in a neat little pile in the corner of the room and hunkers under his jacket and runs out into the rain towards the house. The ground is muddy, sinking under his shoes and staining the bottoms of his jeans. He enters through the basement doors, passing Peter’s room to get to the stairs that lead up to the kitchen. He hears arguing from Peter’s room and walks closer. The rain storm is loud and messes with Stiles’ hearing. By the time he can make out what Derek and Peter are saying, he only hears the end of an argument. To Stiles, it sounds like Peter is threatening Derek’s life in some nefarious way. Derek sounds completely innocent, and Stiles has no idea that the conversation has to do with him. “Leave it alone Derek,” he hears Peter say in a menacing growl. “You’re an idiot who never should have been born an alpha if this is all you can do with it. Do NOT challenge me on this!”

“Let go! Don’t touch me… Fuck off!”

There is a thud. It sounds like flesh hitting wood and the door trembles in its hinges. Stiles jars where he stands, wants to run upstairs but he doesn’t. He can tell from the sounds that Peter has Derek pinned to the door. He hears the thud of Derek throwing peter off. Muted steps backwards on the carpet indicate that Peter stumbles, but he makes no move to return. Stiles holds his breath, uncertain if he is about to witness the result of long-tempered violence… 

Derek’s voice rings out in a gruff rebuke, “You can fight your instincts all you want Peter. That doesn’t mean I’m going to fight mine.” A scrape of a chuckle escapes Derek’s throat. “I think I’ll indulge just a little bit; have a taste of what you refuse to.”

Stiles smells Peter’s fury through the door. Hell, he can practically feel it. Something has made Peter angry enough to want to shred Derek, and Stiles isn’t about to wait to find out what. He yanks open the door just as Peter is getting back to his feet. 

It’s immediately obvious that neither man expects Stiles’ interruption. Peter has the claws of one hand extended while Derek snarls. Stiles is of course, aghast. How could he not be, when Peter crouches there looking practically feral with savage anger and all Derek has done is challenge him over who knows what petty thing? For the first time, a true omega growl rises in Stiles’ throat, raw and low but hard to control. It echoes through the room and silences everything.

Both Peter and Derek stare at him. Stiles hardly has the wherewithal to be abashed. The rumble of his own growl is nothing to match an alpha’s roar, but nothing about it is human either. For once, Stiles has let his wolf’s voice overlap his human’s, and it is clear that everyone present is shocked. Shocked that it’s surfaced at all, let alone to take a side in this argument. 

“Let him go,” Stiles says. He has to ignore the look of shock and hurt on Peter’s face. If he focuses on it too closely, he fears he might fall for something he doesn’t want to. His human side should relish in the defeat in Peter’s eyes, but right now Stiles’ wolf is on the forefront and it takes no joy in seeing Peter take a step back. Stiles’ wolf paws and chuffs at the discord between human want and wolf want, the resultant mess only serving to disorient Stiles further. 

Crouched and half-shifted on the carpet of his room, Peter looks furious. Of course now that Stiles is in the room and grabbing Derek’s hand nothing drastic happens. How could it? If Peter were to continue this fight, this argument he has going with his nephew, then it wouldn’t take long until Stiles found out the truth of the very secret that Peter’s been trying to keep from him since he was ten years old and peter was twenty four…

“Come on,” Derek murmurs lowly, when it seems that Stiles is willing to attack for whatever imaginary offense has been paid him. Derek glares at Peter with a satisfied glint in his eye. “He’s not worth it Stiles. Let’s go.” 

Peter stands there like some conflicted demon, allowing Stiles to retreat from the room with Derek. “Stiles,” he finally calls out, desperate to give the boy some explanation that will paint him as something other than the wrongdoer in this messed up drama. “I don’t—”

“God,” Stiles says in disgust, thinking that Peter is just a worthless bully of an alpha. “Just go away Peter. Leave Derek alone. What’s he ever done to you?” All he can imagine is that Peter has done wrong. It doesn’t matter how, just that he’s done it _somehow_. It’s all that prior evidence can possibly point to, and Like Peter knows deep inside, Stiles paints him as some sort of convenient villain.

Watching the two of them leave, he doesn't know why he lets it burn so sour in his gut. It’s not as if it’s anything new.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The next time that Stiles goes into the shed, he can smell Kate’s scent there. It’s sharp. Fresh. 

Lips tight, Stiles knows that it means that Derek has been with her in the shed since the rainstorm. Stiles is confused and hurt. He knows that it’s not anything like love between he and Derek. He’s grown older, figured out that affection and sex don’t mean the same thing to everyone. And Stiles wasn’t even being _that_ romantic about it but… he’d thought that Derek would at least have more tact than that. When he sits down on the faded couch, Stiles can smell that Derek had her right there. In the same damn place.

It’s because he’s so deep in his own sour thoughts that Kate takes him by surprise. She slips in the door, closing it behind her with a soft ‘snick’ of the latch. “Well what have we here?” she says, voice her usual saccharine purr. 

Stiles is shocked to see her, disturbed even. His shoulders stiffen where he sits. “What do you want?” he asks, trying not to sound too petulant. He really isn’t in the mood to deal with Kate. Her nasty smiles, her perfect hair. Her smug attitude. Stiles wants to shrink away from her. “I came out here to be alone,” he tells her, the vain hope that she’ll go away smothered by the little flicker of provocation in her eye.

“Oh yeah, me too,” she says earnestly, pulling a cigarette and lighter out from her jacket pocket. At Stiles’ slantways look she says, “Derek hates the smell you know? He wishes I’d quit but,” she lights it, taking a deep drag before exhaling slowly, “we all have our dirty little habits, now don’t we?” She winks meaningfully at him, and Stiles has to suppress a scowl. He knew it. He just knew from the get-go that she was going to be mean. It’s what Kate does, after all.

His fingers curl into the fabric of the couch before he can stop them, his embarrassment and anger soaring. Kate continues to smoke, nearly beaming at him. Stiles realizes too late that his reaction to her presence must be downright palpable. An alpha like Kate can easily read omega body language, can practically _taste_ omega pheromones, and Stiles blushes as he thinks that she must be able to see right through him. A bitch she may be, but stupid Kate Argent is not.

“You’re upset,” she finally says, not even bothering with the pleasantries of verbally communicating what her wolf can already sense from Stiles. 

“I’m fine.”

“Oh come on don’t pretend for my sake.” Kate rolls her eyes. “I mean I get it. You like Derek. You’ve got a huge crush on him.” She smiles through her next exhale as if this is the funniest thing. “It’s not as if it isn’t obvious, and maybe a tiiiny bit sad.” Stiles stands from the couch, pissed, but she waves his anger away as if it’s just smoke from her cigarette. “Oh don’t be mad at me,” she teases. “It’s cute actually. That you like him so much. I just worry about you, you know?”

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” Stiles grits, adrenaline flooding his nerves and making him feel faint. He tries to mask it with a look of haughtiness. Tries to be as mean and as careless as Kate. “So Derek and I like to fool around. So what? It’s hot, we get off, and it’s no big deal.” He forces himself to meet her eyes, no matter how his omega instincts tell him to look away. “He likes it. And since he keeps coming back I guess there’s something he likes.” Stiles shrugs. “If you’ve got a problem with your boyfriend screwing me then you should take it up with him.” He’s damn proud of the speech he’s managed to get out on what feels like one single breath. His words sound sufficiently cruel, near to whatever he imagines Kate can levy up. Kate looks surprised for half a second—It’s the second that Stiles would love to shoulder roughly past her, but she’s gotten too close to him now. They’re face to face and Stiles can tell that if he tries to pass she’ll most likely block him. She’s got a nasty look in her eye like that. Shit.

“Ohhh,” she croons, gathering her wits about her like a bee gathering pollen. She may seem honey-sweet, but Stiles knows that all she means to do is sting. “Sweetie, you have to _understand_. Any alpha likes playing with an omega.” Her eyes hold a mocking sort of pity as she tells him this, and if Stiles’ soul could grit its metaphorical teeth it would. “You know,” she elaborates, “you all are so good for some fun. So sweet. So docile. So eager to please.” She pinches his cheek and Stiles would smack her hand away but it’s withdrawn before he can. “But Derek’s an alpha. One day he’ll be THE alpha. He has certain… needs. Certain wants. And you? Why, you used to be human.” Her eyes flicker with pity. “You used to be human,” she repeats, “And you know nobody blames you for that, but there’s something about it that you’ll never really lose.” It’s something Stiles has never heard before, and he watches Kate with an almost sick sort of fascination as she leans in and scents him deeply, her curls touching the side of his face before she pulls back. Her eyes open slowly, looking more wolf that human. “I can smell it on you. And so can he.”

Stiles frowns. “What?”

Kate giggles, as if this is all some laughing matter. “The stink of a human, obviously. And I mean come on sweetie, let’s be honest; you’ve got some mental health issues too huh?” She watches Stiles like a hawk as he flusters. “Yeah, we all know about that honey. Word gets around.”

Stiles _hates_ her. He literally cannot think around his anger to get a good rebuttal out.

“So embarrassing,” she says. “That must be hard. Not that you have to worry about missing days from school though. I mean let’s face it: omegas in general aren’t really known for their… intellectual accomplishments in the first place. And then add on those hyperventilating freak-outs you do?” She sucks her teeth with a look of saccharine sympathy. “Not exactly an indicator of good genes.” She sighs, “No. Some people are just good for a little cheap fun.” She leans unbearably closer to Stiles. So close that he can feel the heat of her breath against his ear as she whispers, “And that’s exactly what you are.” Her perfectly-manicured hand comes up to stroke his face soothingly and she shushes Stiles when he jerks angrily and tries to get away. “Oh, I’m sorry honey. I’m not trying to be mean. It’s not your fault that you don’t fit the bill. Only a born wolf could.”

Stiles can’t think of anything else to get Kate back with for her disgusting words. He grasps for the only thing that might remotely hurt. “You’re so proud of being a born wolf. Do you think that makes you better than me?”

“Of course it does. You’re a mutt Stiles. Not even that. You’re a mutant.” She sneers. “No purebred alpha like Derek is ever going to want to be with you. Someone with no lineage.” Kate seems smug. She doesn’t realize that she’s just given Stiles the very bait he needs to catch her. 

“And you’re like what?” he smirks, “One generation removed from being a human? And the worst kind too, right?” he says provokingly. “Hunters, I mean. Not such a great pedigree. Your grandparents were still killing wolves when your parents were kids, weren’t they?”

Kate growls at him from low in her throat, an angry warning. “Shut up.”

“Oh come on. Everyone knows the story Kate. Just think: if they hadn’t been caught and turned, your whole family would still be human. I, however, turned on my own. Nobody forced me. I would’ve turned no matter what. So in a way, I’m more a born wolf that you could ever be.”

He hardly gets the last word out before Kate is shoving him roughly back. She glares at him even as she retreats toward the door. “You’re nothing. Do you hear me? Humans are scum and as far as I’m concerned you’ll always be a human.” She turns her back, makes to leave. It’s only as she’s stepping out the door that she tells him, “People like you shouldn’t be brought into the preserve. You’ll never be one of us.” She snaps, “People like you and Peter should just be put down.”

She hisses through her teeth and then that’s it. That’s where she’s suddenly gone and it’s almost as if she’s taken all of the air in the room out with her. Stiles barely hears the latch on the door catch, he’s so deep in his thoughts. Kate’s vitriol had been chilling to hear. Six years in the preserve has of course taught Stiles that weres don’t generally think very kindly of humans, but never before has he heard such blatant disdain, such unlevied _hate_ drip from someone’s mouth. The way that Kate had looked at him when she’d spat out the word ‘human’… Stiles sinks down onto the couch, forced to contemplate it in a way he never has before. Do other wolves feel the same as Kate does? As strongly? Stiles hopes not.

In the end Stiles doesn’t know what to do about what happened in the shed. He goes back to the house, back into his room, not speaking to anyone on the way. He’s not sure yet what to say to anyone, or if he even should tell anyone. Can he? What reception would he get?

Stiles is worried to imagine. For the first time he is forced to wonder if other wolves might somehow hold it against him that he used to be human. He’s never thought of his human past as a bad thing. Now he doesn’t know what to think.

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End file.
